


After the Silence

by MyPinkCactus



Series: After the Silence [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Elio's POV, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, New York City, Original Character(s), Sequel, movie canon, some novel canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-07 07:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus
Summary: It's the spring of 1992; New York City looks beautiful even from the small, old apartment Elio lives in. It's been nine years since that last and unexpected call, life has certainly settled into a pattern and Oliver is no more than part of an almost forgotten memory. Or at least, that's what Elio thinks before the phone rings again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with André Aciman's book and style. I fell in love with the film and the elegance with which Luca Guadagnino told this story. And of course, I fell in love with these characters. This fic is how I envision the events after what happens in the film — getting into Elio's head hasn't been easy, especially considering Mr. Aciman's prose — but still, it's been a fun and exciting little journey, and I hope you enjoy it ♥
> 
> I want to thank [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder) for proofreading this and help me correct my questionable translations; your feedback has been inspiring! Also [Syrabylene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrabylene) for her comments and help in the French department lol, and of course [AbigailHT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT) because she is always there.
> 
> Oh! And I made some art for it, because I can't help myself!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

To say that the call had been unexpected was an understatement. Not the call itself; the phone rang frequently, usually to resonate with my parents' effusive voices—one or the other, or both of them at the same time; it didn't matter. Just as it didn't matter the day or the time, there was always something to say that couldn't wait a (not so infrequent) visit in person. I was used to it. And yet, as soon as I heard the ringing, sharp and sinister, echoing impatiently in my small apartment, I felt all my muscles jerk as though awaking from deep sleep.

I took a look at my watch even though I was fully aware that it was early— _very early_. An hour at which, even with the sunrise painting purple lines on the horizon, daylight was still not bright enough to shine in between the buildings; the streetlamps still colored the pavements yellowish, and only drunks and lonely souls dared to wander to the sound of a city that never gave itself a break.

It was them and it was me, barricaded in by the narrow window overlooking the fire escape; watching, judging, as though the mere fact that they were outside and I inside made my insomnia less questionable.

Still, I was so engrossed wondering what kind of lives might be hidden inside each one of them that the coffee I was holding had long since stopped steaming and its resuscitating smell was totally lost—only the shrill sound of the phone managed to bring me back to reality.

I stared at it with bewilderment, as though I was looking at an intruder and noticed the anxiety crawling through my veins like an army of ants. I looked again at the watch that had left its almost permanent imprint on the skin of my wrist, and then back at the turquoise phone screwed to the kitchen wall. Even the random bouts of attention my parents used to pay me had their limits.

I thought of Italy. Maybe the call came from across the pond. But I ruled it out immediately because at this time of year my parents were in New York, too, and if anything had happened overseas I had no doubt they would be the first to know.

Then it occurred to me that if something had happened in Italy and my parents had been informed, they might be calling me right then to let me know.

When I picked up the phone I was breathless, pressing the cup of coffee against my chest, mentally preparing myself for bad news hitting me like the icy breeze from the Hudson on a winter's day.

I didn't say anything, no _Yes?_ Or _Hello?_ Or: _Who died?_ It was Anchise, wasn't it? That crazy old man, I knew one day he'd fall down those stairs ladders. Was it so hard to leave the trees alone? No. Don't tell me it was Mafalda; I couldn't bear that. Even here I could hear her hasty steps, smell the soap she uses, feel her fingers stroking my hair—or that high-pitched voice that she used for twenty-six years to scold me. Please, tell me it wasn't Mafalda.

But at the other end of the line there was only a "Hey". It was friendly. A _Hey_ similar to the one you use to greet someone you're casually meeting with. A _Hey_ that you say with enough confidence to someone you don't need to show any kind of effusiveness—a _Hey_ that meant familiarity. However, that voice was nothing like any I listened to regularly, and yet it had remained etched in my memory in the same way that a song leaves its mark on a record.

My stomach clenched just like it would have with bad news. But I remained silent. Maybe I was confused? Because that friendly _Hey_ was dropped like time was of no importance, even though nine years had actually passed.

I had spoken with my dad the day before and, despite my efforts to appear indifferent, his _Do you know who is in town?_ had managed to skirt around the innermost corners of my subconscious for hours. That was not why I was awake, though, but neither was I going to pretend (especially because I had no one to lie to) that the information hadn’t fueled an anxiety that I had long thought overcome.

I heard a cough that made the earpiece crack; a noise that at least had the decency to show some shame. Perhaps aware that this _Hey_ had sounded almost like _Later!_ with the difference that _Later!_ was conclusive, whereas _Hey_ only worked on its own when the receiver was familiar with its formula, and we had long since stopped saying _Hey_ to each other.

"Elio?"

His voice was low and deep. Had it always sounded like this? I suppose so because it transported me almost immediately back to that winter years ago when I still had some naivety left in me and had heard his voice for the last time, in this same way, accompanied by a distant metallic whirring.

"Yes...?" The confusion in my tone made it sound more like a question than a statement.

I noticed my hands beginning to sweat—one of those cold sweats that threaten to overwhelm your senses. And yet an unusual wick of rebellion caught fire inside me.

"It's me, Oliver."

"Oliver?" It didn’t sound like, _Oliver? Oh my God, is it really you?_ It sounded more like, _Oliver? Who the hell is Oliver?_

Deliberately obtuse. Fake. Too relaxed to be real.

I heard him move at the other end of the line, perhaps uncomfortable, and the corners of my lips turned up, morphing into something that couldn’t be called a smile but was close to it.

"Oliver Coleman. I—"

"Oliver!" I said, cutting him short. Too enthusiastic. I really needed to calm down because I was starting to overact. "Yeah, of course, dad told me you were in town yesterday."

"Yeah. There are a couple of conference talks I have to attend."

He cleared his throat again, still sounding cagey—who knew if it were just nerves or if he was already considering the call a waste of time.

"How was dinner?" I asked quickly in an attempt to redirect the conversation. "Sorry I couldn't be there, I had plans I couldn't cancel."

Well, at least one of those two statements was actually true.

"Your parents told me so, yes... Dinner was good, very good. You know how easy it is for them to make me feel part of the family."

Did I know that?

"They're like that with everyone," I said. I was not intentionally rude but my voice dropped an octave.

He'd always be _La Muvi Star_ , no one could ever take that away from him. But for some reason I didn't want him to feel special. Yes, Oliver, there were others before and after you, don't you dare forget that.

"Listen, I'm sorry if I woke you up, I know it's too early." His tiredness was evident in the way he slurred his words. Suddenly, I hoped it was just lack of sleep and not an expression of regret for picking up the phone.

A surprising and almost alien feeling of panic tingled my lower back, and made me stand upright, as though I hadn’t been aware of what was happening until then. _Don't hang up, Oliver_ , I wanted to say but my pride held me back. I had been mastering silence over the years building that self-esteem that some called maturity.

"Your father gave me your number," he continued. "I thought that, since I’m in town, we could meet and have a drink; catch up. I have to leave in a few minutes, I'll be busy for most of the morning, so I thought this would be the best time to reach you at home."

He spoke fast, explaining himself; he sounded like someone who was about to conclude with: you know what? Forget it, this wasn't a good idea.

Where was the confident Oliver? Had time warped the image I had of him, the man I had desired, admired and envied with the same exhausting passion? It wouldn't surprise me because despite everything that had happened between us, despite what it had meant to me back then, and also (and I was ashamed to admit it) how long it had taken me to get over him, I hadn't thought about Oliver in a very long time.

It felt like as though my brain was trying to put together a chaotic puzzle of memories to determine where my place was with him: was I an ex-lover, an ex-friend, or just someone who had once crossed his path so long ago that the encounter had become no more than a trifling anecdote?

"I was up; I haven't been sleeping well lately." I bit my lip, cursing that part of my conscience, weak and treacherous and eager enough to split open from top to bottom only because I was hearing his damn voice.

I didn't want to make it easy for him, after all, what did I know about Oliver since our summer together other than what my father would drop from time to time, and what I pretended to be completely and utterly uninterested in? As far as I was concerned, Oliver could have developed the personality of an astute psychopath, perfectly hidden behind that movie star–like smile, who took advantage of the digressions in his mundane life to choose his new victim. And here I was, revealing my most intimate night habits to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding sympathetic.

"No need to be," I replied coldly. "I'm pretty busy myself today, but I'm sure I can find a moment in the afternoon."

"Sounds good."

"Any particular place?"

He hesitated for a few seconds, but when he spoke again there was determination in his voice. "There's a small bar a few blocks from Columbia University, next to Morningside Park, called Saurin Parke."

I knew he didn't just drop the Columbia University thing by chance; it was his way of saying: I've been part of this city, too, Elio. And if I, Oliver Coleman, former professor at one of the world's most prestigious universities, am calling you at six thirty in the morning it is not because I need the tourist recommendations from another adopted New Yorker; it's because I want to see you without any excuses necessary.

There was the man I thought I knew.

"I'll try my best not to get lost," I said.

We set a time, said our goodbyes in the most aseptic way I could remember, and that was it—I was back in the present, alone in my apartment, awake at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, with a cold coffee in my hands that I ended drinking in one go.

Welcome back to my life, Oliver.

 

 

There was nothing able to change my mood in such an ethereal and pure way as music did. I could feel the pulse of the notes, of each of those unique, clear sounds, osmotically seeping into the pores of my skin, making my hair stand on end on every inch of my body—a trip to the realm of complete and absolute distraction. I just had to sit in front of the piano, place my fingers on the keys and let them move freely. I didn't have to do anything else, just close my eyes and let myself go.

That was my usual practice, but not this morning.

Today, the only thing I was able to feel was a total disconnection between body and mind. Even the music sounded distant, as though it came from somewhere else, another room—a very distant place. I wanted to scream out loud; vent with a rage I didn't understand, and express a frustration that seemed beyond my rational control—if ever I had one. But the stubbornness (which I had undoubtedly inherited from my dad) forced my limbs to hit the piano to the point of wanting nothing more than to dislocate all my fingers, and put an end to that distressing agony.

When my hands stopped abruptly, making Rachmaninov sound like a cat threw up over the keys, I had lost all sense of time. I think I even jumped on the stool. Then I looked up and found Fabi's scornful eyes, his hand was resting flat and tense on the dark, polished wood where he had brought it down with enough force to startle me.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked with a hint of despair that emphasized his already strong accent.

"What?" I said, still a little dazed.

Fabi gestured with both hands, pointing at the keys.

"What?" I insisted. "I'm sure I haven't made a single mistake."

With a groan and a grimace, Fabi sat down next to me. "It's not the technique that worries me, Elio, it's what you're telling me with it. And today the only thing I’m getting is…" He stretched his back and, moving his hands in the air, continued with a mocking tone: "Look at me, I play so _damn_ well that I could pass for a robot that doesn't need—"

I bumped my shoulder against his to shut him up. He chuckled in return. I enjoyed hearing him laugh, it was a light and liberating sound, which gave a glimpse of what was hidden beneath the elitist shell of an austere teacher as which he was determined to present himself to everyone.

"That's not true," I protested.

But there were two obvious things to consider here: _a)_ Fabi was right, and _b)_ lying had never been something I’d been good at.

I guess Fabi knew me well enough to make light of it with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Still, I couldn’t help but feel bad for having him come over on one of his few days off, knowing that it wouldn't be productive at all.

Fabi was a private piano teacher, and although I was not part of his small student group, he had agreed without any hesitation to take a look at the repertoire that I had prepared for my big (and fucking terrifying) concert. Fabi was stern, but once you managed to break through that barrier of perpetual and belligerent mistrust, he turned out to be an understanding man and teacher who knew very well how to guide his students to get the best out of them.

I didn't need his theory classes, though, so he usually didn't object much to any of my additions. As he used to say, it was a very personal interpretation that I needed to develop on my own. He only offered me some suggestions here and there, but above all he made sure that the message I wanted to express with my selection of music reached its intended audience intact. Fabi was honest with me and I was honest with him. That's how we had managed to achieve six years of perennial friendship.

It had been a memorable moment the day we met. Which also happened to be the same day as Fabi's birthday. In fact, his anniversary had been a couple of weeks ago. The now 33 years old Fabi had insisted that he didn't want any kind of celebration (he considered that after turning thirty his birthday was just an event whose only purpose was to repeatedly remind him that he was getting closer and closer to forty, and still single), but nevertheless, I had showed up at his apartment with a ridiculously large, sugar-saturated homemade cake, on which I had tried to write in giant letters (and questionable calligraphy) _SHIT WE ARE GETTING OLD FABI_. I had wanted to write his full name, just to piss him off even more, but I had run out of buttercream.

Fabi was just the diminutive of Fabien, a name he absolutely disavowed, urging everyone to address him by the short and suitable for all audiences version. I liked Fabien, but I understood his disapproval in a way. It was common among foreigners and especially for him, who couldn’t help but invoke the whole French empire to sonorously congregate at the tip of his tongue every time he opened his mouth to pronounce his full name, getting in most cases an arched eyebrow accompanied by a “ _Sorry what?”_ in response. It amused me how much it frustrated him, and I said this as someone who had become used to some people pronouncing my name as _E-lio_ instead of _Eh-lio_.

I still remember it like it was yesterday: I walked into a godforsaken bar, and there was Fabi, half-lying on the counter with a miserable expression on his face, drinking like a fish from a beer bottle that no longer had any trace of condensation drops left. I sat down next to him and introduced myself with an audacity fueled by the alcohol already swooshing through my blood and recent adrenaline brought on by spite. When he told me his name was _Faebeeuhn_ , exaggerating its pronunciation while assuring me that he didn't give a shit if I didn't understand him because he wasn't in the mood to make life easier for a bunch of lazy and ignorant Americans, I answered, “Oh _, tu es français!_ ” He jumped off his stool, hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks.

Sober, however, he claimed to prefer Fabi because it sounded more _Américain_ , which wasn't true at all. In fact, I told him one day that Fabi was actually a Russian name, to which he responded with an genteel wave of his hand: "Do you think these _imbéciles_ Americans would be able to tell one from the other?"

His hateful relationship with the Land of Opportunity was due to the fact that he had realized not only that the myth was no more than a tall tale but that in most cases you’d only be able to achieve success (what was known as the American Dream) if you had a strong sociopathic streak or Patrick Swayze’s physique. For humans equipped with a normal character and an ordinary appearance all that was left was to suffer, going from one shitty job to another, hoping that the salary at least allowed you to pay for a roof above your head, no matter how dreadful it might be.

It was not that Fabi wasn't good-looking, but to those accustomed to the white, tall, blue-eyed, blond types Fabi was (to say the least) different: brown eyes, dark curly hair, long strong features, and a large—and slightly aquiline—nose that fit perfectly with the harmony of his face, but which, nevertheless, and according to a certain majority (including himself), could use some little fine-tuning. A woman once went so far as to offer her plastic surgeon's card once. Fabi took it without hesitation, but I prayed that when she got out of there, the stars would collude and a space rock would hit her in the face.

Indulgence was not part of my tiny repertoire of virtues, I guess.

I liked his nose the way it was; it made his appearance unique, with a personality that I (and a few others) found irresistible. Fabi pushed the boundaries of the beauty canon that defined attractiveness. We were living in a country where the image you projected was more important than your real qualities as a person, which turned people not only into walking mannequins but into real masters of disguise and fakery. And yes, I was more than aware that Oliver fit into that group perfectly, but who was thinking about Oliver?

Fabi radiated charisma and that European exoticism that I missed so much when I was away from Italy, and that was also part of my DNA to sixty-six point six percent.

Funnily enough, some people had the nerve to ask us if we were related—if they only knew what Fabi and I did when we left the conventions behind and went past the fuzzy boundaries that defined our friendship…

Still, there was a reason why we had never let it be more than sex: the irrational fear we both had of breaking that special affection we felt for each other.

We had shared personal space for more than a day once, when Fabi was exceptionally desperate and I had offered him a place to stay at my apartment. It was dingy, ugly and not very large—in fact, it only had one bedroom but I had inherited it from my father's great-aunt so, under the circumstances, I had no reasons to complain. Fabi had initially turned down the offer but ended up staying for two weeks until, in an unexpected stroke of luck, things began to change for him. He had been able to show his musical talent and managed to cover for another teacher during his holiday period, who (fortunately for him) never returned back to his job. That allowed him to make a name for himself and, after a few years of hard work, to finally open his own small private music school.

Now he lived just two floors above me, and the fire escape had become our main way of communication.

"Why don't you quit all these rehearsals, Elio," he said, subtly accenting the _o_. "You're obviously tired."

"Actually, I wouldn't mind sleeping more than four hours in a row."

"I don't know why you're so worried. Everyone knows you'd be able to play these pieces even in your dreams."

I groaned bitterly.

" _Merde_. Forget it. Forget it. But you can talk to me, you know that, right?"

I purred, burying my face in his neck.

"Come on, what are you so afraid of?"

"Of not liking it."

Fabi made an odd sound in his throat and his Adam's apple stuck in my forehead, but before he could rebut me (as I was sure he would) I continued: "What if I don't like playing for an audience?"

"But you've _already_ played for an audience."

"Not for such a _big_ audience. No." I stood up, pouting like a little boy about to cry. "What will I do if that happens?"

"Oh, Elio," he said in that paternalistic tone that I so hated. But I deserved it. "There are so many things you can do. Also, don't forget that you have been offered the rare opportunity to show your talent in a huge theater. Others only have the privilege of using the streets or subway tunnels, and we both know that not only the acoustics are _horrible_ , but they are also an offense to our olfactory sense. Come on, relax, you wouldn't be the first musician to suffer a stage fright attack in the middle of a performance, anyway."

"Thanks for reminding me why I'm not paying you for this."

Fabi offered me a wide smile and patted my thigh affectionately before he got up. "Don't worry, my little Padawan, I intend to collect my fees, but we’ll discuss the terms of the contract another day. Now, what I’m trying to say is that, at some point, even the great ones have proven to be human."

"Not sure if I would have the audacity to say Barbra Streisand is from this planet."

"See, that’s my point! What a waste of a great voice. But nerves are a natural response to the unknown." He sat down again, straddling the stool, and stared at me with his most persuasive expression. "Go out there, Elio, and show them what you’re capable of. I have no doubt that you’ll leave them speechless. And if you don't like the experience after all, you can always write music for others—or become a charismatic and adored teacher like _moi_."

For someone who always seemed to be angry at the world around him, Fabi had an amazing ability to make me laugh.

"You know, you should include the Perfect for Tears song in your repertoire," Fabi added.

"Are you still thinking about that song? And since when does it have a name?"

"Since you made me ugly cry listening to it. It's a very good song, Elio. All the songs you've been working on are great, but that one in particular has something special."

"I don't know… I've actually been thinking about writing music for slot machines."

Fabi pursed his lips in an unpleasant way.

"Don't look at me like that! Believe it or not, it's a real job."

As though he no longer had anything to contribute to the conservation, Fabi stood up.

"I'm not even joking," I continued. "I heard it on the radio the other day: a well-known composer—who didn't reveal her name of course—said she started her career composing music for casinos."

"Really?" he asked as he began to collect his things. I also got up to do the same; our time in the rehearsal suit was running out.

"I’m totally serious, and honestly, if you think about it, it has a lot of merit. It's not just composing a funny tune, you have to write something capable of awakening people's gambling demon, something ready to say: Hey, listen, buddy, forget that old and out of tune machine; come to _me_ , I'll make you rich."

Fabi chuckled. "I'm sure they'd play anyway no matter which machine was trying to seduce them."

"Your ignorance offends me."

"Listen, why don't we go grab something to eat and then have a drink, so you can keep educating me about this slot machines _fascinant_ world?"

"You mean, go out like the other day?"

I smiled as I saw Fabi's cheeks turning a slight and unusual rose-pink. But just as fast I felt as though all my internal organs were folding in on themselves, like hundreds of doors closing at the same time, leaving a heavy void inside me.

"Well, we had fun the other day, didn't we? I'm not even gonna pretend I don’t miss it. Why are we such cowards, Elio? Everything is so easy between us."

It was true, but I was also sure that I heard the sound of my protective bubble bursting right then.

"Relationships take a lot of effort, and you and I are still young. Who needs complications?" I said.

Sometimes I was surprised at the amount of nonsense I could spit out of my mouth—as though I wasn't about to meet Oliver after nine years of deliberate silence. And even if his pretext was well-intentioned, a gesture of sheer politeness toward my parents, I didn't doubt my ability to make the experience a total disaster.

"Yeah…" Fabi replied in a not very convinced tone.

"Hey, I'd like to go out with you," I said, sounding more desperate than reassuring, "but I can't today, really. I have things to do."

Like meeting the person who sucked up (almost literally) what little innocence had been left in me. The person who not only watched me become a man but also was there, holding my hand while I jumped headfirst into an abyss whose depth was uncertain. Someone who loved me and taught me how to love to the point of physical pain, and then took a part of me that never had the courage to resist, not in person, not in any other way. Not that I had given it much thought, anyway, because he had also showed me an Oliver that few people knew about, but that he unfortunately seemed to tug away again as soon as he closed the door of the train, leaving me behind. But that other version of Oliver was mine, and I knew that despite everything, no one, not even him, could take it away from me.

I had wished him no harm, at least not after restoring some of my judgment after weeks of wandering around like a ghost. I wanted him to be happy, and if marrying a woman he hadn't bothered to mention _at all_ during the six weeks in which he usurped my living space in every conceivable way—then I could only wish him the best of luck.

To forget him, however, hadn’t been that easy. Everything reminded me of him. _Everything_. If I saw a sculpture, even if it was of a woman with ample breasts, I thought of Oliver. Is that how his future wife looked like? If I watched a bike parked carelessly, I thought of Oliver. If I heard a song about a cowboy lost in space, I thought of Oliver. If someone offered me an apricot, I (inevitably) thought of Oliver.

Sometimes I had wanted to pick up a knife and cut out that part of my brain that had been forever disturbed by his presence, his voice, and his attitude. But that had been a different Elio. The new Elio was able to sit in front of him and show him that he had not only moved on but had met men and women who had filled him with happiness as much or more than he had. Oliver was history.

Or at least I was trying to convince myself of it because every time I remembered that I would see him again this afternoon I felt an unbearable pressure on my bladder. I begged whoever was listening to me at least not to pee myself in his presence.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I looked at Fabi, almost surprised that he was still there. I smiled because that was the only thing I still seemed to have some control over.

"Yes. It's just tiredness and nerves…"

"Stop worrying, El. They'll surrender to you like everyone else does."

Were we still talking about the concert?

"I won't rule out the slots thing though."

There it was, that soft, charming laugh again.

For a millisecond I thought about calling Oliver's hotel and let him know that I wasn't going to show up. Which was impossible because he hadn’t mentioned where he was staying, so I would have to call my dad to ask him and that would mean I would have to answer some questions that I weren’t prepared for at all. Besides, I couldn't help myself; I was as scared as a disoriented little bird that had just fallen out of its nest, yes—but I also had a morbid desire to see him.

"Knock on my window anytime, okay?" Fabi said, throwing the tote bag he carried with him everywhere over his shoulder. "If you need to rehearse some more, or just have a break…"

"What if I just need to kill the stress?"

"For that, you know you can come whenever you want." He winked at me and pressed his lips against my cheek, offering a warm and tender kiss.

"Fabi," I called, forcing him to turn around as he was about to walk out the door. " _Merci_."

And I really meant it.

" _Pas de soucis_ ; you know I'll end up taking advantage of all this. _Au revoir! Arrivederci!_ "

I adored him.

But the sense of calm disappeared the moment I looked at my watch. I let out a deep sigh. Still five hours to go.

 

 

I wasn't very hungry but as soon as I walked through my parents' doorway, being greeted by the smell of freshly made food, my stomach made sounds similar to those of pigeons in a period of heat.

How suitable.

I found my mother in the kitchen, always serene and exuding an aura of natural purpose and authority even there, leaning against one of those old cabinets, taking advantage of the light coming from the door leading to the terrace as she held a manuscript in one hand and a red marker in the other. Next to her, on the counter, was a half-empty glass of wine.

" _Ça sent très bon_ ," I said, wrapping her in an effusive embrace and kissing her cheek repeatedly.

" _Salut, mon amour._ " She laughed, although she didn't like us speaking French when we were in the States. She used to say her tongue tended to become lazy if she did, even though she could work on three translations in three different languages in just one day. She loved her job, though, so you'd never hear her complain about it.

"Still working?" I asked.

"Just one last revision," she said slowly. Still, she showed she was not as distracted as she appeared when her hand shot out at lightning speed, lashing me with the same electric precision as a whip just before I could get a spoon into the tomato sauce that was simmering.

"What! It looks good!" I protested.

"It's your _papa’s_ doing, but you know him. He leaves the food on the stove and then disappears."

"That's why he's lucky to have you."

She set the manuscript aside as though she had finally realized that she was not alone and grabbed me by the chin, looking me firmly in the eyes. I tried to act like the grown man everyone assumed I was, although in reality the first instinct that came over me was always to run away. I didn't like it when she did this; there was something about her, some kind of mysterious power that was as fascinating as it was terrifying—especially if you became the target of her scrutiny. When I was little I used to tell everyone that she was a witch, capable of reading and controlling your mind, and if you dared to mess up with her she would turn your skin inside out. No one ever dared to contradict me but it was also true that everyone loved her.

I tried hard to make my mind go blank (just in case), knowing first-hand that I wasn’t the person with the most proper thoughts, however fleeting they might be—much less at this moment, with Oliver's shadow lurking. But my mother's expression remained almost impassive for a few endless seconds before her lips curved into a warm smile as she cupped my face with both hands.

"Are you going to stay for lunch?" she asked, grabbing another glass and pouring me some red.

"Yes." I smelled the fruity aroma of the drink. "How was dinner last night?" I inquired in a poor attempt to sound casual, but the question was left hanging in the air, dressed with a slight, pompous squawk towards the end that I was unable to suppress.

I drank the wine in one go.

My mother approached the stove and stirred the sauce, deliberately ignoring my ill-fated attempt to appear carefree and normal.

"Good, but Oliver left early. Apparently he had a very busy morning. It was nice having him, anyway. It always is."

For some time I had been totally convinced that my mother had remained completely ignorant of the events of the summer of 1983. And by that I mean the steamy encounters that took place only a few doors away from the room where she slept soundly (at least that's what I had thought) beside my dad. But as the weeks went by I had realized that she had been the most perceptive of us all. My dad had made his point clear about the whole thing, and although I had initially been afraid (and deeply embarrassed) I had felt a great relief as well. However, the anxiety had begun to develop into genuine alarm as I became more aware that my mother was not as oblivious about what had happened as I’d thought. If it was due to some particular sensitivity or to the simple fact that, as the woman who had brought me into this world, she knew me better than anyone else, I was still not quite sure. Yet she had never spoken to me on the matter, nor had it been necessary. Her glances, kisses and hugs were more than enough. That’s why I never felt safer than when she was around.

I tried to refill the wineglass while nodding with all the indifference I could muster, but the bottle only gave me a couple of drops that were barely enough to stain the glass.

"Why don't you invite Fabi one of these days to thank him for everything he's doing, huh?"

"Thank him for what?"

"Come on, Elio, he's using his spare time to help you with the concert."

I chuckled, leaving the empty glass next to my mother's. " _Maman_ , you know his French ass needs no excuse to accept an invitation from you."

She smiled because it was true. Fabi had found in my parents what he missed so much from home, even though he didn't really have anything or anyone to miss back in France.

"Where's _papa_?"

My mother tilted her head, looking at me sideways as though wondering if that stupid question had really been necessary.

I left the kitchen and walked down the narrow hallway to the studio. It was not a big room, especially when compared to the office we had in B., taking into account the shelves full of books and folders, which almost covered the four walls—but it was more than enough for the work they did here.

My father was sitting behind his desk, concentrating as he scribbled with another one of those red markers that could be found all over the apartment. I took the empty chair in front of the table, but he continued to read and write. No one could deny the intrinsic ability my parents had to ignore my presence.

"How many of those poor fools are you gonna make come back in the fall?"

My father smiled and then chuckled sardonically as he shook his head and crossed out a paragraph that took up at least three quarters of the page.

"Not many," he said calmly and without taking his eyes off what he was doing. "It's been a good year, actually."

I waited a few cautious minutes, but when my father made no attempt to interrupt his work and I noticed my own patience wearing thin like skin after being burned by the sun I straightened up in the chair: "Did you give Oliver my number?"

I wanted the question to surprise him, like a policeman sitting in front of his main suspect would, asking without any preamble, _"Did you kill Miss Scarlet?"_ But the imperturbability on my father's face was, to say the least, disappointing, and his response was limited to an uninterested hum.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why not?"

I opened my mouth in an incredulous gesture. My father, however, continued to look at his papers, writing as though this conversation was not even taking place.

"Because... because we haven't spoken in nine years?" I said, letting my _justified_ indignation become apparent. "We know nothing about each other."

"Oh, that seems to me like a good reason to catch up, especially with someone I've had intense affection for," he said, looking at me for the first time since I'd sat down.

"It's been _nine_ years," I repeated, as though this was the most incontestable proof of a crime and everyone had inexplicably decided to ignore it.

My father shook his hand in the air, as though my arguments were nothing but nonsense.

"Oliver always asks for you when he writes or calls—and of course he did yesterday, too. So I told him, ‘Why don't you ask him yourself?’ I won't deny that he was reluctant at first, but I assured him that you would be delighted to hear from him. At least, I think my son has grown up to be a capable, independent and understanding man. Am I wrong?" he asked, looking over the rim of his glasses.

I sank deeper into the chair.

"I assume he called you, yes?"

"Yeah. And you know what? Maybe Oliver’s just been polite all this time, and now you've compromised him."

"Do you think so? Are you two going to meet?"

"Yes…"

"Why?"

I looked at him as though he had grown a second head in record time.

" _Why_?"

"Yes, why? It's obvious that you feel irritated by this whole thing. You could have said _no_ , or just made up an excuse… like you did yesterday."

"Yesterday was not an excuse—at least not entirely. And it was too early; my brain wasn't working fast enough. I guess."

To my utter amazement my father laughed out loud, picked up all the papers and placed them in a pile on the side of his desk. Then he got up, circling the table to put the books he had been using back in the spaces they had left on the shelves.

"Or _maybe_ ," he added, emphasizing his words, "there's a part of you not affected by stubbornness, aware that you can't carry that much resentment for the rest of your life?"

"I don't—"

"Elio…" he cut me off immediately.

I snorted, giving up.

"Sometimes it’s necessary to put aside our pride and assume that there are some wounds that, like it or not, cripple us and need to be healed."

There was a short silence. I figured it was my turn to deny that bold assumption but I no longer had the strength to continue to deny the obvious.

My dad, cunning as he was, noticed, and approached me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We would never interfere with your life, neither I nor your mother, you know that, don't you? We like that you are able to make your own decisions, right or wrong. But, Elio, don't ask me to be like those parents who prefer to look the other way just because the reason of their childs’ suffering is uncomfortable for them."

"I'm fine," I said in a small voice.

"I know you are. I just want to make sure you know we're here, for you—always."

I nodded, feeling some of the heaviness that had been pressing down on my shoulders fade. Then I noticed my father’s fingers rake through my hair. I knew what he was about to do to distract me because he knew very well how much it annoyed me when he messed up my hair. But I smiled when his hand stopped at the nape of my neck.

"You cut your hair!"

Now it was shorter at the sides and back, whereas at the top of my head the curls swirled wild and free.

"I like it," he said, leaning back against the desk. "Looks very glam."

I laughed, shaking my head and letting him offer me a cigarette.

"Are you going to stay for lunch? I made some _squisite_ fried eggplants with tomato sauce."

I followed him out of the office as he bragged about his culinary skills, resisting the temptation to look at my watch again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

There was no doubt that this whole Oliver situation was beginning to transcend the bounds of sanity when I realized how much time I had spent sitting on the bed, staring at the open closet doors and the clothes I had scattered all over the room. Why did it have to affect me like this? It infuriated me to think that after all this time Oliver was still able to exert such an influence over me. I was a new man, with a new life and new friends (even though I hadn't lost the old ones); Oliver was just a notch from the past, and I didn’t care in the least what he thought of me, of my appearance or my love for faux suede.

But I did care. That's how simple I was.

I got up from the bed grumbling, grabbed the first two garments I came across and left the room. I then returned to choose something different, which minutes later I discarded again for something else. In the end, I opted for an outfit that was not too extravagant but not too ordinary either—something I knew suited me well and was a perfect balance between elegance and casual. A person's appearance could tell a lot about their personality (or at least about their interest in certain situations) and I didn't want my wardrobe to reveal neither excessive enthusiasm nor laziness.

I ended up laughing at my own reflection as I adjusted my leather jacket; I wasn't even sure who I was trying to impress. But suddenly I realized that I had never really thought abstractly about Oliver's image out of his place in _heaven_ , the icy water from the fountain and his suggestive colorful swimsuits. Perhaps because I had always preferred to remember him naked under the sheets of my bed, which had become his and then ours, covered in a thin layer of sweat mixed with the remaining fluids of our lovemaking? How was Oliver away from the oasis that B. had meant? Would he resemble my father, who anyone immediately identified as a teacher with just a quick glance? Did he continue running in the mornings or had his monotonous married life formed his anatomy, erasing any trace of the athletic body that I had loved so much moving against mine? Would his hair still reflect those golden tones that were especially noticeable when bathed in the last rays of sunshine? Moreover: would he still have hair?

I thought about going to Fabi's apartment and fill him in on what I was about to do, as a form of life insurance, begging him to proceed with whatever actions he considered appropriate if I hadn't returned home by ten. After all, at the other end of the city could be waiting the man I'd let turn my whole world upside down, or I could find myself in front of a six-foot-five stranger, bald and pudgy, able to reduce my miserable existence to no more than cat food.

I grabbed my Walkman and put the headphones over my ears and left the apartment with the determination to end this thing as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be a new day and I could go on with my life as I had until now. Oliver would disappear (again) and nothing would have changed.

I entered the subway, pushing through the pack of bodies that came and went in every possible and imaginable direction, and slid in a space between the seats and the doors. I leaned my head against the steel surface and closed my eyes, letting the music drown out the hubbub around me. The cassette tape was a gift from Fabi, one of the compilations that he used to record with everything that piqued his interest regardless of genre or style. The first one to surprise me with his boldness was Glenn Gould; the corners of my lips stretched as I remembered the conversation we had that morning. Gould had been one of those pianists who had been reluctant to perform in public, preferring to leave testament of his talent in the recording studios. The thought was comforting. The next song that came on was _Maggie M'Gill_ by The Doors and when the faint sighs of Donna Summer's _I Feel Love_ followed I couldn't help but chuckle.

Almost half an hour later I emerged again from the depths of Manhattan to find myself face to face with one of the buildings belonging to the Columbia University complex, its red brick walls decorated with large limestone ornaments. It was not the first time I visited the area but it was undeniable that today the atmosphere felt changed.

I walked towards Morningside Park with my hands in my pockets and the headphones hanging around my neck. The subway, packed with its mass of people had been a pleasant distraction; I’d even had an interesting (albeit brief) conversation with a redhead with pretty freckles and extra-large glasses about how much she had disliked the _Alchemist_ and its sexism. I’d agreed with her, something that seemed to surprise her. Then I’d pointed to the book she’d been holding in her lap, also by Paulo Coelho. It was his latest one, she’d said, which she’d just finished, and now intended to throw in the first garbage bin she found—although most likely she would leave it somewhere, she said right after, hoping that whoever found it would be able to enjoy it way more than she had done. A very generous idea, I commented, and added, "You really hate Coelho, huh?"

"I don't hate him. But I guess, like with most things, there always has to be someone willing to swim against the tide."

Remembering this encounter I got lost down a couple of streets and had to ask for direction. It turned out that Saurin Parke was facing one of Central Park’s north entrances, which would have been a much more precise point of reference in my opinion—but I assumed Oliver had his reasons to mention Columbia.

I looked at the windows with their thick green frames and checked the time. I had arrived ten minutes earlier than planned, so I considered my options: the first one was to go in and check if Oliver was already there; if not, the second option was to wait for him inside, having a cup of hot coffee (still more than welcome at this time of year). But I could also opt for the third one, hide somewhere nearby and watch his arrival, which would offer me a certain advantage when it came to determining whether or not it was really worth meeting him. However, this option set up an important problem: I couldn't spy on Oliver without knowing if Oliver had already arrived, and I couldn't check if Oliver was inside without Oliver catching me in the middle of the ignominious act.

But then it occurred to me: if Oliver had come early, I’d make him wait, and if he hadn't, I’d make him wait when he did.

I walked into Morningside Park. It was less crowded than Central Park. I passed the open baseball fields where two different games were taking place. I watched them for a few minutes but quickly lost interest and continued walking below the trees until I found an empty bench to sit on. I crossed my arms over my chest as a way to prevent me to look at my watch every second but my nerves found another outlet in the energetic and continuous jerking of one of my knees. I shifted several times while trying to appear calm to the few people who were walking around the area, not sure if I had much success; I think I even muttered some blasphemy when I realized that my heart was beating abnormally fast. What are you afraid of, Elio? You have the power of ending this stupid agony in your hand, just take the subway and go back home! Was it really important to stand Oliver up? There was a possibility of hurting his feelings, certainly, but did his feelings even matter? Had he cared about mine when he called that winter afternoon to say, _I'm getting married, do you mind?_ What kind of question was that? You'd have to be a real fool to consider it acceptable to ask such a thing. Of course I cared!

I got up abruptly and rummaged through my pockets. Then, with a cigarette in my mouth, I checked my watch again: it was about fifteen minutes past the agreed time. I'd smoke the cigarette and show up in front of him, with all its consequences. I didn’t give a damn, it was already decided. Still, it would be ironic if I opened the door and it turned out to be Oliver who was late. _I'm sorry; you know how the city is_. Or better yet, that he didn't show up at all because he'd forgotten. How sad and pathetic would that be?

But Oliver was there, with all his blond hair covering his head, sitting on a dark green padded bench that took up much of the wall on the left; on the table were a cup of coffee and some papers. I hurried before he could look up; I didn't want to walk towards him with his eyes on me and give him the time to be the first to pass his judgment. I stopped in front of him just as he leaned against the soft backrest and his blue eyes met mine. I felt as though time stopped for a moment and yet I was surprised at how calm I was—I could say that I was even a bit disappointed. I had the feeling as though I was suffering from the intoxicating effects of anesthesia, as though my brain was unable to link Oliver's image to this place. His appearance was familiar but everything else, from his clothes to our surroundings, didn’t fit and therefore didn’t seem entirely real.

I smiled (only as a sign of cordiality), and Oliver's lips curled up cautiously as well.

"Hi," I said.

"Hey."

_Hey._

I noticed that Oliver made a motion to get up, maybe so that we could embrace with the uncompromised hug of two comrades who meet again after a while apart. It was also entirely possible that he would only offer me a cordial handshake. I didn't wait for what he opted for, but instead dropped into one of the wooden chairs in front of him, saving him the courtesy just as he lifted his ass from his seat. He sat down again immediately, clearing his throat.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," I said standoffish as I hung my jacket over the back of my chair.

"Just a little." He folded the papers he had been reading and put them away—a moment of distraction that I took to observe that his cup of coffee was almost empty. "But I already assumed that it would be a bit hard for you to find it".

"It's not like you were particularly precise with your directions."

Relax, Elio.

Oliver laughed softly and I thought I heard a hint of nostalgia in that sound.

"I didn’t rule out the possibility that you might not come at all," he added, speaking lightly as though, had his suspicion been fulfilled, he wouldn’t have been upset.

"It's funny because I was thinking the exact same thing."

The waitress approached us, a beautiful young woman with wide hips, big green eyes and charcoal-black hair tied up in a sloppy bun.

"What can I offer you?"

"Mmm… I'm not sure yet… Actually, this is the first time I've come here, so what do you recommend?"

"It depends on what you wanna drink. You have a menu right in front of you," she said, pointing to the plastic-coated leaflet in the center of the table.

"I see… the problem is," I subtly turned to have a better look at her, "studying the menu will take me a while, so you'll have to go back behind the bar to wait for me to decide on something, and you'll get tired because I know myself; I'm an indecisive person. When you'll eventually come back here, I'll tell you that I'm still not sure what to take, which will force you back to the bar again, and that would only be a nuisance to you."

"It's my job," she replied, but there was no animosity in her voice.

"True, but I'm also sure you'd never recommend anything that wasn't delicious. After all, a satisfied customer is always good for a big tip."

The waitress rolled her eyes, yet two dimples appeared on her cheeks as she let out a light giggle. I didn't turn to look at him, but I could feel Oliver's eyes piercing my skull.

"Well, how about we start by choosing the type of drink?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Okay, do you prefer coffee, tea, beer, something stronger…"

"I'd rather save the drinks for later," I said, fighting the temptation to take a look at Oliver. "So I think I'll go for coffee."

"All right, we got: black coffee, latte, cappuccino—"

"Oh, no, no. I don't trust American-made _cappuccino_ ; no offense."

"Have you ever been to Italy?" she asked sarcastically.

"He's half Italian," Oliver interjected.

"Only one third."

"Really?" There was now excitement in the waitress's tone. "I was born here, but my whole family is Italian."

"No way!" Maybe I was exaggerating my attention a little bit, although the girl certainly was pretty and seemed really nice, and Oliver sitting there, watching the whole scene, just managed to add fuel to my verbal diarrhea. "Where are they from?"

"From _la Campania_."

"Oh, wow, we live in _la Lombardia_."

"I've never been there before, but I'd _love_ to visit it."

"You definitely should. You know? When you go, we could hang out—I could show you everything from _Milano, Como, Cremona_ … _Bergamo_."

The bench’s leather squeaked with Oliver's sudden movement. The waitress flashed me a full smile.

"My name is Dora." She introduced herself, reaching out the hand that wasn’t occupied with her little notebook.

"Elio."

"Of course," she said, as though the conversation had been meaningless if I had answered Michael or Calvin. "So…"

"Damn it! I'll have a _cappuccino_."

Dora smiled and then addressed Oliver. "Are you going to have anything else?"

"Just coffee. Thanks," he replied with a blasé tone.

He was lounging on the bench, one arm placed on the backrest, his eyes following the waitress with interest. I used that moment to examine him closely. Nothing seemed to have changed and yet everything about him felt completely different. The passing years had left traces. Faint lines were visible on his forehead, similar to the thin crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes that showed up every time he smiled and didn’t disappear when his muscles relaxed again. His hair (still almost full) looked just as blond as nine years ago, although the golden shades began to fade to a more grayish hue in some areas. But he was still Oliver, with his imposing presence and that suffocating armor of self-confidence—especially dressed like this, his wardrobe far removed from his ordinary, sweaty summer clothes. His attire was excruciatingly formal, a black suit combined with a white shirt. He had taken his jacket off, and his loosened, dark green tie gave only a glimpse of the lax attitude that was probably still hidden somewhere inside him.

"It's a nice place," I said, unbothered when he caught me checking him out.

"Yes, it is. I used to come here with my colleagues."

"Only with your colleagues?"

He didn't take the bait I had so unwisely thrown at him. He just looked at me with _that_ look: Oliver's Gaze—the gaze that had always managed to make me feel small and insignificant, unworthy of his attention. A gaze that I had found myself unable to hold, and that forced me to turn my attention away from him while my cheeks burned like two embers. But today I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me tug my tail between my legs. I wasn't that extremely shy teenager anymore.

I crossed my arms and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the round table, realizing right then how small it really was and how close I was to Oliver even though he was still sitting with his back sunk in the back of the bench.

"You’ve changed," he said after a moment, softly, as though it was his way of calling for a truce before any kind of conflict had even broken out.

"You, however, look great—as always."

Oliver chuckled. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean you've… grown up."

"Indeed. I’m no longer seventeen years old."

"Elio." Suddenly, Oliver was only an inch away from me, so close that his knees brushed against mine, and the spicy smell of his cologne tickled my nostrils. He placed his elbows on the table, as a reflection of my own posture, and his voice was low, with a tinge of warning. "I didn't want to meet you to start a fight or throw accusations around, okay?"

"I didn't know you had anything to accuse me of—anyway, I wasn't implicating anything, I was just stating a fact," I said with false indolence. The sudden tension that enveloped us managed to heighten all my senses.

Oliver's eyes left mine for a second, looking over my shoulder, before he returned to his initial position, his face relaxed in an expression that seemed to be well studied. Seconds later, Dora showed up with our coffees.

"I hope it doesn't disappoint you," she said, putting the cappuccino in front of me.

"I'm sure it'll be the best _cappuccino_ I've ever had in my life."

Dora laughed and walked away shaking her head.

"How was your day? How were the lectures?" I was quick to ask.

I didn't want to let the silences drag on unnecessarily because I knew it would only give us time to reflect on what we were really doing. I also didn't want to let Oliver lead the conversation. I couldn't let him be in charge. I needed to be in control, otherwise I knew that if I let Oliver steer this locomotive that jolted at the same speed as my heartbeat we would end up crashing at some point. The first impact would be hard as always but if we survived the worst was to come later when we had to decide what to do next. We were already past the first impressions phase but now we had to face the most complicated part: to find out if there was still some connection between us or, on the contrary, to discover that following opposite paths had been the best decision we could have made.

"Boring," he said, as he toyed with the untouched sachet of sugar on the table.

"Nothing interesting?"

"Nothing interesting—and I'm absolutely sure of it because I'm the one that delivered the lecture."

I raised my eyebrows in an expression halfway between surprise and incomprehension.

"It was a last-minute thing," he clarified. "I'm just here to replace an old friend. He had an accident a couple of days ago and didn’t want to cancel everything."

"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious."

"He's fine, but not in the condition to stand in front of a bunch of teachers sucking up every last atom of energy."

"He has to be a good friend, then."

Oliver took a careful sip of his coffee.

"Besides," he continued, as though the conversation hadn’t been interrupted, "it's always a good excuse to get away and wind down."

Those words provoked an unexpected interest that I tried to hide, blowing on the thick layer of cappuccino cream.

"Everything all right?" I asked as neutrally as possible before taking a sip.

Oliver stared at me for a moment, then leaned forward, placing his elbows back on the table, not taking his eyes off mine; a wide smile lit his face while I tried to ignore the electric current that seared through me every time he made the slightest movement and our knees touched. He lifted a finger and brushed the tip of his nose. I felt the dampness on the tip of my own nose then; I touched it, noticing the remnants of cream and quickly wiped it off with the back of my hand.

"Everything's fine," he said, still smiling and drinking some more coffee. "But sometimes it’s inevitable to want a break when you live with another person twenty-four hours a day. I don't speak for myself, I think mostly about Charlotte. I'm convinced she's enjoying these days apart a lot more than I do. Especially right now; it's good for her to rest, and I recognize that I can be a very annoying husband, asking all the time if she's all right or if she needs this or that."

I was sure there was some kind of hidden message in his words, even if I didn't quite understand what he was trying to tell me (in case he was really trying to tell me anything at all). Oliver must have sensed my bewilderment because he picked up his cup, and drank what was left of his coffee calmly, as though meditating on the easiest way to proceed with his gibberish until he finally put the cup back down as though he had come to the conclusion that it was best to drop his news without vagueness or retractions, like when you are about to jump out of a plane and what you least need are words of encouragement, but instead someone to push you. He concluded: "She's pregnant."

I was glad to have left my mug placed in its saucer just a second before. Confusion was added to my (already) disturbed mood. How was I supposed to take this? And, above all, why had Oliver felt the need to meet me and give me this news? This was going to be his second child, it was not as though I hadn’t been through this before, although on the first occasion it was my father who had told me about it. We had been chatting about some unimportant things, and suddenly he had said: _Oh, by the way, Oliver’s gonna be a dad_. I still remembered how I had felt—that icy wave that runs through your body when you come across something unexpected. But I had blamed my shock more on the sudden way my father had dropped the news than on the knowledge itself. After all, it had been almost four years; Oliver was inexorably married and starting a family was a natural part, complying with the rules established by our society. If anything, what had surprised me had been that the news didn’t come sooner. _I’m happy for him_ , I had said, and afterwards had focused on my own business because what else could I do?

However, it was Oliver who was telling me today, staring at me shrewdly, as though he was expecting something, perhaps a specific reaction. But which one? Surprise, joy, disappointment… All of a sudden I was pissed off. This arrogant fucker still believed that everything concerning his persona had the power to affect me. And he was right, damn it! But I wasn't going to let him see it.

"Congratulations," I said, trying to present myself both affably shocked and pleased.

"Thank you."

Oliver took his cup and tipped it over slightly, looking at the dry coffee dregs that stained the white porcelain.

"That's why I wanted to have dinner with your parents last night. I wanted to tell them the news in person."

I nodded as though his motivations were completely understandable to me. I wasn't sure if I now regretted declining his invitation and thus avoiding this situation. Last night, the more than predictable and excited response from my parents would have drowned out everything else. Oliver wouldn't have had the need to call me today, and I might as well have stayed immersed in my music.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" I asked just to fill the discouraging silence that was palpably threatening in the distance like a summer storm could be perceived on a hot day.

"We don't know yet. We'll wait. We want it to be a surprise."

"Any preference?"

Oliver shook his head. "I just want the baby to be healthy, but Charlotte would like a boy."

I didn't even try to hide my surprise. "Wow, that's interesting. After a boy most people prefer a girl—you know, to have one of each, they say. Especially women."

"Your parents tried?"

"I guess my parents had more than enough to do with one insolent kid."

It was nice to hear him laugh, particularly if it was the result of my verbal incontinence. He looked younger, more like the Oliver who wore a green swimsuit and played volleyball as though nothing else mattered in the world.

"Charlotte's not like that, she'd like Sean to have a brother to play with."

"And what would stop him from playing with a sister?" I was aware of the vexation expressed in the question, and tried to soften it by sipping what was left of my cappuccino.

Oliver leaned back, putting space between us again. "She's just worried. Sean doesn't show any interest in the same things as other boys his age. This Christmas, for example, he wanted a play kitchen. He loves it."

I shrugged my shoulders as though I didn't understand what he was talking about, though, obviously, I did.

"Most of the world’s renowned chefs are men."

There was a deep sigh before Oliver looked away. "Kids can be cruel."

"Kids aren't cruel," I argued. "They're just curious and don't give a shit about this kind of nonsense. It's their parents and the adults around them who instill these stupid prejudices in them."

Oliver glared at me, and for the first time since I felt that my bravado had crossed a dangerous line.

"Sorry. That was totally inappropriate."

"Do you have any suggestions on how I should raise my son?"

"I would never have the nerve to meddle with something like this, mainly because I’m aware that I would never be a good father. Besides, it's not like I know much about your life to have anything to say about it, Oliver."

I hated that I had let my guard down so quickly, my undeniable melancholy evident especially in that last comment. I moved the empty cup towards the center of the table, so that my hands had something to do. I could see Oliver relax, the tension in his shoulders disappearing like a deflating balloon. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I thought I perceived bitterness in the way he pressed his lips together.

"I didn't ask you about the concert," he said eventually, sounding drained. "Your parents told me about it yesterday. You must be excited. I'm so happy for you, you deserve it."

I wanted to answer what the hell did he know about what I deserved and what not, but I no longer felt the strength to continue this quarrel, just as a child that got upset because his parents didn’t buy him the candy he had been expecting as a reward.

"Yeah, thank you," I replied, sounding hollow, which was followed by an uncomfortable silence, only disturbed by the incessant sound of Oliver's index finger tapping against the worn wooden table.

"I should go…" he said suddenly, checking his watch.

The desperation I felt at his words was comparable to the force with which the wind hits you in the midst of a blizzard. I looked at the door as though I could find some way to block his escape. I refused to accept that everything was going to end here, that he had made me come just for this talk, even though from the very first moment I had mentally prepared myself to discover that between Oliver and me were no more than fading memories left.

"So soon?" I said. I had taken the trouble to take time off to come here, and I had no intention of retreating until I was absolutely sure that there was really nothing left for me and Oliver.

"I have to get up early tomorrow aga—"

"Are you kidding me? I didn't drag myself to the other side of the city for a fucking $4.25 _cappuccino_ and fifteen minutes of small talk, Oliver."

"Don't worry, I'll pay for it."

"Save it. You're paying for the drinks."

I got up from the table before Oliver had time to hold me back, paid our bill, said goodbye to Dora and returned to our table, where I was delighted to see an expression of perplexity on Oliver’s face. For once I was not the one who felt lost at sea, and I intended to cling to this feeling of superiority as though my life depended on it.

"Come on," I urged him.

Oliver slowly picked up his jacket, as though he still didn't understand what was going on.

"Come on, let's go."

"Elio, tomorrow will be another early morning."

"You've become an old man for real, huh? Even my parents have more energy than you."

In a second, Oliver was standing up, using both his size and stoutness to challenge me. I was about to take a step back, taken by surprise, but thankfully I didn’t back down.

"I'm a grown man concerned about his responsibilities," he said in a deep voice.

"It's Saturday, your only responsibility is to arrive safely at your hotel, and I’ll take care of that personally. Now come on, there's a place you have to see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

I didn't dare look at him, but I was able to picture Oliver with a grim expression as he followed me a few steps behind along the narrow, dark corridor. The flashing lights led the way to the rhythm, the melody perceived with a dull buzz, soothed by the thick walls separating the entrance from the dance floor.

We dodged the people heading for the exit, or those passing us in a hurry; also the couples (mostly men) taking advantage of the suffocating intimacy to make out without fear of being discovered.

I felt my body temperature rise as though in a calamitous feverish state. The jacket and the turtleneck sweater that I had chosen were too much, and it wasn't just because of the heat in here; Oliver had come so close to me that our hands touched almost involuntarily.

He leaned over, as though he was going to tell me something, maybe that he already knew this place and loved it (or most likely, that he didn't like it at all); perhaps that he had thought better and it was time for him to go, and have some rest. Or that he needed to leave to call his wife and, like the decent husband and father he was, make sure that both, she and his son, were doing okay.

I shook my head as though distracted by something and hurried to open the heavy door that blocked our way. The music welcomed us in the same way that a treacherous wave hits you with unintended surprise at the seashore. I could feel the rumble of the bass stirring the cappuccino in my stomach that I was still able to taste on my tongue. I threw a glance at Oliver, who followed me very closely, scrutinizing the club with great suspicion. He looked totally out of place as he walked through the dancing mass of people, laughing and chanting the lines of the song.

I got rid of my jacket and the sweater, keeping only a simple white t-shirt, as soon as I found a free space at the bar. Oliver took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves carefully; a pragmatic gesture that had nothing to do with feeling comfortable.

I looked at the waiters coming and going, and then back at Oliver.

"I think you should also take off your tie!" I shouted, trying to make myself heard over the music, and also using the circumstances to shorten the distance between us.

Oliver didn’t flinch; he didn’t even seem to blink. He looked at me with an imperturbable expression, which barely changed as he untied the knot and removed the tie, freeing his neck. He put it in his jacket, or at least I thought he did; I was unable to stop watching him, just as I was unable to decipher what his eyes were telling me.

"What is this place?" he asked with the same impassivity on his face.

I shrugged, not only because the question was stupid but also because I knew exactly why he was asking it.

"It's just a club," I replied.

Oliver laughed acidly. "Do you come here often?"

"Sometimes…"

If Oliver was judging my pastimes, it was impossible to say.

The music changed for the joy of those around us. I couldn't say what song it was; I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything other than Oliver as long as he kept looking at me like this, as though he was trying to dig through the different layers of skin in order to look for something that, for now, he didn't seem to find.

"Why did you bring me here, Elio?" he asked.

I could answer so many things to that question: because I don't want to feign anything in front of you, Oliver. Because this Elio you see here is just a nine-year older version of the Elio you met in Italy. Because this is my way of telling you that I’m not going to hide who I am from you, and that I would like you to do the same. Because I’m convinced that, even after the huge leap in time that has kept us apart, I still know who you are. I can see it under the conformist persona that you have undoubtedly perfected over the years to fulfill your role for the prying eyes. Because here, with me, you don’t have to pretend, Oliver.

Nevertheless, I was sure that, one way or another, Oliver knew all these answers, so I shrugged again and said, "Because it's nice. Good music… good people."

Oliver shook his head, unsatisfied but with no apparent intention to keep asking. Maybe it was because deep down he knew that there was a big difference between what you thought and what you could say out loud. So he leaned over the bar and raised one arm to draw the attention of one of the waiters, who came almost immediately. Perks of being the tallest and most attractive person present in this noisy gathering, I guessed.

I took a big swig as soon as the waiter slid the glass in front of me. I could barely hear him, but I was sure that Oliver chuckled at the look on my face.

"The hell is this?" I quickly asked. "Coke?

If it weren't because I felt outraged, I would even have enjoyed the smile of satisfaction that replaced the annoyed expression that Oliver had worn up to this moment, as he caught the straw between his lips and drank as though he were the only person unaware of how irresistibly desirable he was.

"I told you so," he said, "I’m a grown man concerned about his responsibilities. Besides, I pay, I choose."

I think I rolled my eyes; the music was so loud that I had already lost all awareness of the involuntary responses of my own body.

"You're not even remotely the oldest person in this place," I said.

"It’s possible, but I would bet that I’m the only fool who will have to get up early tomorrow to speak in front of two hundred people—I have no intention of adding a hangover to such misery."

"Why not? It could be fun."

"It could…"

He stirred the ice with the straw to finally forget it on the bar and take a big sip from his drink.

"So… is this New England Oliver really as soporific as he looks like, or does he take some time off to have fun once in a while?"

"What is having fun for you, Elio?"

It was incredible that even drowned out in the raucous clamor, the way he pronounced my name was still able to provoke goosebumps breaking out all over my skin.

"I don't know: going out with friends; doing things you… don't normally do."

"I go out with friends, but I'm afraid I prefer a bar, chatting… it's that simple."

I shook my head vehemently. "You're totally wrong! _This_ is simple: loud music, no chance for a trivial conversation with a stranger. Only drinks and beautiful people."

"I don't remember you having trouble making conversation in the past. At least not with me."

Then you just remember the good times.

I felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity.

"There is a moment for everything," I added, nonchalantly.

"And I think this would’ve been the right one to talk."

"We're talking."

"Yelling in our faces is not talking, Elio."

Someone pushed me to make some room at the bar. Oliver grabbed my arm with one hand, preventing me from falling against him. I regained my balance with dignity but I didn't move back an inch. We were so close that I could feel the warmth of his body—in fact, I could feel the warmth of everybody, but his was as scorching as being exposed to the sun in the countryside in the middle of August.

"If it weren't for my outburst, you'd be in your hotel right now," I reproached him.

"Maybe… but at no point did I imply that I wanted to go alone, did I?"

There had to be some reasonable way to explain those words, for sure. But I always found rationality a slippery slope, and the blood that rushed down my crotch, like the water released from a dam, didn't seem to take it into consideration either.

My mom had told me on more than one occasion that I was like an open book. _"It's so easy to know what's going through your head."_ It was possible that the crux of the matter was right there, and it had nothing to do with her possessing any kind of extraordinary power. The problem was that I was sure Oliver could see it too.

His playful expression didn't change, but he did change his posture, leaning on his elbow on the bar, and despite the noise I was sure I heard him clear his throat.

"The restaurant is pretty good, and so is the bar," he explained, as though to say: don't misinterpret my words, Elio, I'm just being nice, and having dinner and a beer is something that two adults can do without it implying something intimate.

But what if this was what I misunderstood?

I had never been good at reading people, much less Oliver. I wish I had inherited my _maman_ ’s sensitive ability, or whatever it was she had. I wished Oliver was as transparent as everyone claimed I was. Everything would be much easier, and the chances of misinterpreting a gesture that really meant what I thought it meant even if I couldn't believe it meant what it really meant, would be greatly reduced.

The sweat was making the thin fabric of my shirt stick to my back and I felt the clouding vertigo of the alcohol I wasn't drinking.

This was exactly what I had feared would happen: Oliver taking over the situation. I had brought him here because this was my territory, because I knew he would feel uncomfortable and that would give me an undeniable advantage. However, my unconscious and revealing attitude diminished any capacity for strategy in a game in which Oliver performed much better than me.

But I was not willing to abandon this ship. Not for the moment, at least.

I drank more than half of my Coke and placed the glass on the bar with more energy than was necessary. "I thought the new Oliver refused to drink alcohol."

"I said I didn't want to wake up tomorrow with a hangover, not that I had become a teetotaller."

He was cleverly circumventing all my attacks and I was running out of aces up my sleeve.

I looked around us; the enthusiasm of the people was contagious. I wouldn’t have hesitated to let myself get carried away by it, and to blend in with all those bodies experiencing a freedom that they ironically reached only in such a limited and vicious place, if I didn’t feel so fascinated by the magnetic force that seemed to emanate from Oliver.

"You mentioned it before," I said, trying to play my last trick, "there’s nothing wrong with wanting a change of pace from time to time. Enjoy this, Oliver, you're being the attraction of the day. Everybody's looking at you."

"No, they don't," he replied without a second thought, eyes glued to mine.

Damn, he was good at this.

"That guy over there," I said, using my chin to point to a man leaning on one of the central pillars. He would be around thirty and was tall, not as tall as Oliver, but tall enough to stand out. The changing lights made it impossible to make a detailed assessment, but I could notice a strong, manly face.

Oliver turned slightly to look at him.

"Not my type," he said when he turned his attention back to me. "Besides, I'm pretty sure it's _you_ he's interested in."

I watched the man once more. He was drinking from his glass (surely not Coke) without bothering to hide his stare.

"He's not my type either," I said, which was a fallacy. If Oliver weren’t here, I wouldn’t have hesitated to approach him, even if only to boost my ego, the same one that was now running around a dark room like a headless chicken. "He obviously lacks good taste."

Oliver laughed loudly. "I don't agree with that at all."

I had run out of bullets.

How was I supposed to take this? Was he deliberately flirting with me, or was he just trying to avoid adding more fuel at these moments of unstoppable self-pity, like when someone pats you on the back saying, _"Come on, it's not that big a deal, don't worry,"_ just to stop you from wasting their time? I didn't want to push my luck and come to a hasty conclusion. Oliver was like a giant soap bubble, worthy of admiration for its particular beauty, but it could disappear with one clumsy movement, so quickly that you could only wonder if it had been real.

Fortunately, the next song made the crowd go even crazier—a classic by Dead or Alive (which fit perfectly with the dilemma I was facing) that got everyone to sing along loudly.

I smiled warmly when I saw that at last there was something able to disturb Oliver's composure, as he shook his head with amused weariness.

"Can't the nineties have their own damn music!" He yelled.

I laughed at him, my body already moving with the catchy melody. I grabbed Oliver by the hand, using this brief break-in to regain control and pulled him with me, trying to drag him to the dance floor.

"Come on!"

"No!"

"Come on!" I repeated.

"No!"

But the wide smile on his lips made his face shine brighter than the lights that sketched strange figures over our bodies could.

I left him there and slid onto the jam-packed dance floor, letting myself be carried away by the music, effortlessly moving to the rhythm of the song’s tempo, and making sure that Oliver didn't miss any of it. Let him look, let him remember, let him yearn for those moments when we danced together in solitude, pressing our bodies closely and rocking into each other until we became one.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins like intoxicating liquor. Oliver was watching. I couldn't see his eyes, hidden under the sharp shadow projected by his eyebrows, but he was watching.

I danced as though I were the only person on the dance floor, as though it was just Oliver and me. I danced for him.

Then I noticed a pair of hands on my hips and a strong chest against my back—it was the man who had shown interest in Oliver. Or me. Or both of us. Who cared? This was even better. Was there still any chance of arousing jealousy in Oliver? What would cross his mind as he watched another man touch what had once been his? It was probably just me, wishful thinking, but my childish side couldn't resist the temptation to find out.

I moved against the man's firm body, closing my eyes, not so sure if I actually wanted to see what Oliver's reaction was to this obscene display. The man's breath was leaving a damp trace on my neck as he rubbed his half-hard dick against my lower back. At any other time of prolonged abstinence, I was sure that I would have responded differently to this clumsy act of incitement. Perhaps I would even have led him to the dark bathrooms to fulfill the burning drunken desire in the least romantic way possible.

Today, however, I wasn’t drunk.

I woke up from the trance when someone grabbed my arm tightly. I would have smiled triumphantly to see Oliver planted right there if it hadn’t been for his stony expression.

"I'm going!" He said.

"What?" But I had heard him perfectly.

"It's getting late! I'm leaving!"

I was about to say something, when Oliver released my arm and boldly walked away to the exit.

I followed him, as fast as I could, making my way through the wall of bodies that seemed to deliberately close in front of me. When I reached the street, I was surprised to find that it was almost dark already. Oliver was lighting up a cigarette, as he walked down the little-used alley to one of the main streets.

"So you still smoke!"

It wasn't one of the sharpest observations to make at this point, especially considering the agonizing force with which my heart was pounding against my ribcage. But it was my frantic way to take notice that there was still something about Oliver that I was able to recognize.

Oliver turned around. I stopped in my tracks, keeping a sensible distance between us.

"Why are you leaving?" I didn't want to sound desperate, but I sounded desperate.

"I told you, Elio, it's been a long day and tomorrow is not going to be much better. I'm not in the mood for this."

"For what?"

"To go partying as if I were a—"

He censored himself there, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils and pinching the bridge of his nose as though suddenly he felt an intense headache.

"All right…" I said almost in a breath. "Let me get my things and I'll accompany you to—"

"No."

His voice was so harsh that it felt as though he had punched me, as though I had been thrown into a lake covered by a thin layer of ice. I might even have heard it break after the impact.

"Listen," he said, sighing deeply, but trying to soften the tone. "It was—"

"Why did you call?" I asked, cutting him short, not bothering to hide anymore the anxiety and despair that had hovered over me throughout the day.

Oliver stared at me for a few seconds, then lowered his gaze and scratched his forehead with his left hand. The golden band around his ring finger (which I had somehow ignored until now) twinkled under a bare streetlight.

"Why are you doing this to me, Oliver?"

"I didn't—I just wanted to know how you were doing," he said in a way that sounded more like an attempt of an answer than a real one.

"You could have asked my parents," I replied coldly.

"I'm sick of that, Elio. I’m tired of asking them. And your father is right: I’m a grown man, I should be able to ask these things face to face."

I wanted to say something to him, but Oliver raised a hand to stop me. "Look… I know I've done a lot of things wrong, but it's been a long time, Elio. Can't we just forget it and try to have a normal relationship? We _were_ friends before anything else. It makes me sad to think we have lost that."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing; Oliver telling me that he missed our friendship. _He_ , who instead of paying us a visit as expected, opted for the most cowardly and despicable way to tear my heart apart, make mincemeat of it and feed it to the dogs. _He_ , who hadn’t bothered to contact me again after that phone call, leaving it to my dad to pass the latest news about his life.

"It makes you sad?" I said, laughing ugly.

"Elio—"

"You're nine years late, even for a meaningless friendship."

 

 

The darkness, the dizzying lights, the deafening music and the stinking smell of sweat and alcohol turned my stomach on my way back into the club. I tried to find my jacket and sweater but they had already disappeared from where I had left them, along with the Walkman and the cassette Fabi had recorded for me.

I know I'm not perfect, and that I can sometimes be a bit selfish, but I've always tried to be respectful and polite—I've even helped Mafalda clean fish. What the hell did I do to deserve this?

I patted my pant pockets fretfully; at least I still had my wallet and keys with me. But I wanted to scream, cry and vomit, in no particular order of preference.

Outside, I shivered with the cold of the early night that I hadn’t noticed before. The damp, lonely street seemed even gloomier now. There was no sign of Oliver, and I was glad, but I also felt a twinge of disappointment. I visualized the scene in my head perfectly: I left the club and found Oliver waiting for me, ready to kneel down to beg my forgiveness. I would’ve felt some pity for him, I was sure, but I wouldn't have stopped him. Oh, no. I would’ve enjoyed it like a piglet in a mud pool.

A stray cat was all the company I had. Seated on one of the dumpsters, the animal stared at me for a moment, then meowed as though to say, _"Life is shit, isn't it?"_ before it began to dig through all the smelly accumulated litter.

The subway ride didn’t improve my mood. I was cold and had too much time to think, something I usually tried to avoid at all costs.

I had failed.

Was I surprised?

Not at all.

Why did I have to accept the invitation? At least before this (and despite my pertinacity) I thought that the kindness and interest that Oliver had professed towards me was not just due to the fondness he felt for my parents. Even when I tried to convince myself that I had only been a mere entertainment for Oliver during the summer, I had hoped to be wrong. But in the end it had been another of the many ways I used to protect myself. If I turned my memory of Oliver into something awful I would have a better chance of forgetting everything faster. After all, it was much easier (and much more bearable) to hate than to love.

Like many others, this idea didn’t last long in my head. Despite how upset I was, I had no doubt that what we had shared during those weeks had been completely genuine.

Now, however, I doubted that Oliver would want to ever see me again, and although just the thought made my chest constrict as though I was deep underwater, I also understood that I had no right to reproach him. Yet, my stupid desperation was not enough to overlook his last words. _Let's forget it; let's be friends_ , he had said. Friends before lovers. I had to agree with him on that, and his reasoning would have made sense had it not been because he himself had decided to cut off all ties between us. I would have understood his decision if the lack of communication had extended to the rest of the family, such as when you meet someone during a trip and at the moment of saying goodbye you promise that you will call each other, knowing that this won’t actually happen, but both accept it silently as each returns back to their lives.

This was not the case. Oliver sent letters regularly, or called on important dates. But none of his attention was ever directed at me.

Marzia had encouraged me to take the first step, _"Why don't you write him?"_ And I had certainly meditated about it _._

_Dear Oliver, I'm Elio—_

_Dear Oliver, do you remember when—_

_Dear Oliver, maybe you don't remember me but—_

_But_ it was him who had decided to distance himself from me to build a new life, and I couldn't help but feel that I had no right to meddle in it. So the only option for me had been to accept that everything was over and that just like his, my life should follow its own path. It had been painful, just as it was now, even if, once again, I refused to accept it.

I was feeling an immense anger when I closed the door to my apartment. I was pissed with Oliver, with my father, and with the damn spring weather that, as in a bad romantic film, had allowed the clouds that had threatened the sky for much of the day to empty themselves violently right then.

I sat soaking wet in front of the electric piano by the window. The apartment upstairs had been empty for several years now, and Mr. Freeman, who lived downstairs, worked at night, so I didn't have to worry about his broom tapping the ceiling.

I played the first chords of one of the songs I was writing, but my hands kept shaking uncontrollably and—anyway, it was too emotional, Oliver didn't deserve it.

What I could cry about was my jacket and my sweater, and my Walkman, and the cassette that Fabi had given me just because—he didn't need excuses, he was a true friend, one of those that are always there when you need them.

Instead, I got up and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets until I found a bottle of rum that someone had forgotten there, who knew when. It was half empty but it was more than enough to warm me up and immerse myself in a comforting state of unconsciousness.

 

 

I awoke abruptly, frightened, frozen and disoriented—confronting an unexpected and unidentified abyss, and before I could figure out what was happening, I fell on my face to the floor.

I opened my eyes when my brain finally stopped shaking like a jelly cake—the pattern of the carpet, now glued to my face, told me I was still in the small living room and that I needed a bigger couch.

With enormous effort I entered the bathroom and after emptying my stomach and washing my mouth, I dragged myself woefully to my bedroom. It took me longer than it could be considered acceptable to change into something more comfortable, but I didn't dare get into bed. I watched it for a while. It was small, made of wrought iron bars, and I was sure that all the bedding, from the sheet to the colorful comforter that covered it, was courtesy of Mafalda.

I felt very lonely all of a sudden.

Without bothering to put on my shoes, I ran to the fire escape and climbed the two floors separating my apartment from Fabi's. I knocked on the window repeatedly and harder each time, until Fabi appeared, staggering like fresh out of a zombie movie, stumbling over all the furniture in his way.

He looked at me puzzled, then looked at the sky (it was still dark), then at the clock and back at me again. Then he opened the window to let me in.

"What the hell, Elio? Have you seen what time it is? What—" He put a hand to his chest and his eyes became as big as walnuts. "Oh my God! Is there a fire!?"

"No."

He exhaled heavily. "Then what the—"

I hugged him tightly.

"I did something stupid," I whimpered.

Fabi said nothing for a moment, but then he grabbed me strongly by the shoulders, pulled me away and stared me straight in the face.

"No…" His voice sounded so alarmed that I shuddered.

We had buried one of our friends not so long ago—Daniel, twenty-three, and a whole life ahead of him.

"No, no, no. Not _that_ stupid," I said.

Fabi snorted with relief and hugged me again. "Then what?"

But my drama seemed so unimportant. It was, in fact. It was fascinating how easily we settle into a normal routine, letting the most banal things become real headaches, when there were people who didn't even know if they would see the light of a new day.

"I don't want to talk about it now," I sighed.

"Okay…" he said, his amusement melting into a yawn. " _Merde_ , it's still too early, come here." He took my hand and led me to his bedroom. "Let's sleep, and later, if you want, we can talk about it."

 

 

When I woke up for the second time, the morning light was already slipping between the shutter blades. Fabi slept peacefully beside me, his heavy and slow breathing tickling my cheek. He looked so calm and relaxed that I could’ve spent hours looking at him if I didn't find it so damn creepy.

I couldn't help but laugh when Fabi squeezed me back against him as I tried to get out of bed.

"Only five more minutes," he muttered.

"Okay…"

It was Sunday, the perfect day to do nothing but laze around in bed. What else was left? I had nothing to do; Fabi had nothing to do. Oliver was the only one who had something to do. The idiot.

I felt sick.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I whispered urgently.

Fabi took his hands away and turned around, but I found him wholly awake when I came back after spending a few embarrassing minutes sitting on the toilet lid, doing nothing but looking at the blinding pink tiles and recapitulating the events of the last evening.

"You look pale, more than usual. Are you all right?" he asked.

"Too much rum, I suppose."

I let myself drop next to him again.

"Oh, so that's the stupid thing you did last night. You got drunk."

"I got drunk at home. Alone."

"That sounds like something _mon grand-père_ would have done before he woke everyone up, breaking everything he had within arm's reach," he said with admirable courage, lying on his side with his head resting on one hand.

"I didn't break anything, I think. Maybe my nose, almost, when I fell off the couch."

Fabi chuckled and got closer to examine my face. " _Ton nez a l'air bien._ Now, are you going to tell me what made you drink alone, at home, without even inviting me to such a special event?"

I sighed. "Do you remember Oliver?"

"Oliver…" Fabi rolled his eyes, as though he was trying to find the answer inside his eyelids.

"The summer guest—"

"Oh, yes! The _américain_ who opened your back door."

I nudged him in the ribs.

"I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Yes, Oliver, of course, how could I forget?"

"He's in town, and yesterday he called me… he wanted to see me."

Fabi arched an eyebrow. "For...?"

"To talk, I guess."

"Really? And did you _talk_?"

"Not much, honestly…"

Fabi stared at me for a moment. Then he sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute, wasn't he like… married with children?"

"A boy, and he's about to be a father again. That’s what he said."

" _Putain_! Elio, don't tell me you slept with a married man!"

"I didn't!" I defended myself. "But… maybe I tried to provoke him a little and—"

Fabi spat out a string of French profanities.

"Don't go there, El. No, no and no," he said, waving his hands angrily. "That never works because, you know what? No matter what they do or what they promise you: they'll never, ever leave their wives. It's easier for them because no one will dare look twice if they are seen taking a walk holding hands with a woman—bonus points if one of them is pushing a baby stroller. No one will _suspect_ anything because that's what everyone expects. What’s not so common is a man abandoning his family for another man. And I assure you, Elio, because I know from experience, that none of these men, who venture into a life of complacency, are prepared to face the cynical reactions of the society they are so afraid of."

His words thudded in my ears like the gavel of a judge in a courtroom sealing my fate.

I covered my face with both hands.

"Oh, Elio…" He lay down next to me again. "I'm not judging you, okay? I'm not saying that Oliver can't feel anything for you, but how long has it been? We can't even say that he doesn't really love his wife—look at you, enjoying both sides of the coin! But it's… too complicated and you know it."

"I know."

"What happened yesterday?"

"I think I managed to scare him away."

Fabi chuckled.

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"I behaved like an idiot. I deserved it."

"You can be so melodramatic sometimes. I doubt it was that big of a deal," he said, pushing a lonely curl off my forehead. "Tell me one thing: if he called you tomorrow and told you that he has divorced because he has discovered that he needs you by his side, what would you do?"

I pondered the answer because it really was a good question.

What would I do?

My irrational side would probably not hesitate to surrender to him completely. But my sensible side (because, oddly enough, I had one) would probably wonder if it was enough to throw myself back into his arms. I had loved Oliver once, true, but would I let him back into my life so easily, a life I had built on my own and that he hadn't been a part of?

Nine years was a long time after all.

"I don't know," I replied, softly. "I guess I'd need time."

"There it is, Elio, we are always giving them time. What we don't seem to understand is that our time is also valuable." He paused and took a deep breath. "So… you still have feelings for him."

It wasn't a question, and yet there seemed to be a confession in it. I was not prepared for this; I was not sure what to say. But above all, I feared the consequences whatever the answer turned out to be.

I looked at him. "You hate him."

"Do I? No, I don't hate him, why should I?"

"You do."

"Okay, maybe I dislike him a little bit, and not just because he made you suffer but because I've had my own dose of _Olivers_. Perhaps my experiences weren’t as memorable as yours… you were so young, he was your first, and from what you’ve told me, it really was something special. But I have also been the other option, the complicated and problematic one. And even so they always give you hope, and you wait and wait with the naive expectation that one day they’ll finally realize that they can't live without you." He closed his eyes. "The thing is… that day never comes, Elio."

I hugged him.

"I'm sorry," I said, with my head buried in his neck.

" _Pourquoi_?"

"I've made you sad and it's too early for this."

Fabi leaned back just a little to look at me. "You never make me sad." He had one of the most beautiful smiles I'd ever seen. "Maybe you get on my nerves sometimes, but I can live with it."

I kissed him on the chin, he kissed me on the tip of my nose, which made me laugh, and before we knew it, we were making out like schoolboys—two lonely souls, desperate to feel some love, which ended with his hand inside my pants and mine inside his. Slow at first, soon urgent, until we both let the ecstasy drain our bodies and minds.

 

 

"What are you gonna do?" Fabi asked, chewing on a piece of toast.

We were in his kitchen; it was similar to mine: narrow, with a small window with a serving hatch that connected it to the living room. Fabi was sitting there while I made some coffee in an Italian coffee pot that I had bought him on one of my many trips back to _la Lombardia_.

"About what?"

"About Mr. America."

I threw one of the kitchen towels in his face and sat down, pouring him some coffee.

" _Merci_. Mmmm, bless caffeine… why doesn't mine taste this good, though?"

"Because you're French."

"You're French too."

"Only one third," we both sang at the same time.

We laughed and it was good. It felt good. I could get used to this, to this simplicity. Fabi and I understood each other—we _knew_ each other so well. As much as to know exactly when one of us was going to recite that pet phrase that the other knew by heart. Two men with no artifices nor false façades, and who loved the other person deeply.

Why was it so difficult then? Why couldn't we let ourselves go? Why were we so afraid?

To be fair, I had to admit that it was me who was more reluctant; Fabi simply reacted to the irrational panic that took hold of me with admirable patience. Which made me think, was I being one of his _Olivers_?

I wasn't narcissistic enough to think something like that.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said matter-of-factly, as he poured himself more coffee.

"I don't know… it's Sunday, so I can lock myself in my apartment, forget this ever happened and focus on the songs I'm working on."

"Including _Perfect for Tears_?"

"Including _Perfect for Tears_. Or…" I made a dramatic pause. Fabi placed his elbows on the hatch while he drank small sips of coffee and looked at me expectantly: "I can grow some balls, go to his hotel and apologize."

"For the ever-wise Elio," Fabi answered, offering me his cup for a toast.

"For the always sweet and caring _Fabien_."

"Fuck you."

We drank, ate and chatted animatedly, and I enjoyed it as much as I could before embarking on what could become the second most embarrassing day in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

Going around by subway was one of those things that, despite their simplicity, never ceased to fascinate me—a person, a song, a book, a comment, a look, a gesture… anything could change your day in the space of a second. Ten minutes were an eternity underground; twenty were even more. And the determined and confident Elio who had gotten on the train at 50th Street was not the same fearful and insecure Elio that got off at Central Park North.

I snorted, letting my unsteady breath mingle with the fresh morning air. The sky was clearer today, but one could never trust the volatile spring weather.

The hotel where Oliver was staying was only a block away from the café where we had met yesterday. He had told me this when he had tried to fill the silences while I plotted that crazy plan to regain the lost dignity that I had not only failed to recover, but had ended up burying under layers and layers of thick impudence.

I didn't get lost this time, although I would have preferred it this way; to run into a subway entrance after going around streets and alleys, and descend again to the confines of my cowardice where I, undoubtedly, felt much safer. Yet here I was, facing the hotel where Oliver had spent the night, and where he had probably woken up this morning, delighting himself with the privileged views of the dawn’s pale pinks coloring Central Park.

The reception was smaller than I expected, but the place still smelled of money, which I had no doubt Oliver could afford. I asked for him: Oliver Coleman. The woman behind the counter, skinny but sinewy and whose body language communicated prudence, but (at least for the moment) not hostility, told me with her hoarse voice that Mr. Coleman was not in at the moment. Will he come back soon? Of course she couldn't give me that information. Do you mind if I wait here? She dismissed me with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders, not even bothering to look up from the papers that kept her so busy.

I settled on the couch; in front of it was the counter behind which the receptionist already seemed to have forgotten about me. Next to it was the elevator, and then the stairs. The front door was on my right, and fortunately the couch was not the first thing you saw when you entered. I still felt the need to shrink into the cushions, wishing that with a little bit of luck I would pass almost as unnoticed as any of the other decorative objects.

People came and went, some to check in, others to check out—then there were those asking for the best tourist route: Fifth Avenue, St. Patrick's Cathedral, Rockefeller Center… I took out one of the two books I had brought with me in my backpack, but I could only see pages filled with printed letters that didn't make any sense. I was unable to stop cataloguing the hustle and bustle taking place in the lobby. Like the people who sat next to me, letting themselves drop there not even asking if the place was free. It was so obvious that it was free. Then they'd get up and leave me there like those forgotten magazines that you just glance at to kill time at the dentist's waiting room. No one paid attention to anything, only the receptionist, whom I caught giving me the odd furtive look.

After an hour, my mood began to sink. I had put the book back in the backpack, so I had only my active imagination as the only form of distraction, and that was never a good thing.

What was I doing here? I didn't even know how I should react when Oliver walked in. Should I approach him as soon as I saw him? Or was it more appropriate to wait for him to talk to the reception lady, and let her tell him that there was someone waiting for him while she insinuated, covertly, that I didn't seem to be right in the head? Should I smile? Or should I pretend that I was just passing by and had only decided to stop to say hello?

No one would buy that.

I picked up the backpack and went outside. Thank God, there was no sign of Oliver. I still had time to avoid a confrontation for which I didn’t dare to guess a possible outcome. I could run away, and pretend that the day had started differently—go back home, check my sheet music, invite Fabi for lunch and spend all afternoon doing nothing but enjoying each other's company.

I needed a cigarette.

Front pockets. Nothing.

Inside pockets. Nothing.

Back pockets. Not possible.

Backpack? Not a trace.

I had forgotten them.

Discouraged, I leaned against one of the big pillars flanking the hotel entrance. Why are you still here, Elio? Go away. Move quickly and quietly, Oliver will never know. Perhaps the receptionist mentions something, adding a vague description. _I'm sorry; I don't know anyone that matches it._ And he would go on with his life and I would do the same with mine. His relationship with my parents would remain intact because, at the end of the day, they were not responsible for my antics. I could even imagine Oliver covering my back. _"How was the meeting?" "It was nice. Are you ready to go back to Italy?"_ Then my father (it couldn’t be my mum because she would catch his lying lip like a hunter catches a varmint) would lose himself in an enthusiastic litany of plans and good intentions for the coming weeks, which would make everyone forget New York, including Oliver.

Nothing would change.

It was the best decision, but it was too late now. I felt the electric chill that runs down your spine when you sense that someone or something is watching you even in an empty place. Oliver had a foot on one of the three steps separating the hotel entrance from the busy sidewalk—his eyes deep in mine, and not even his faked serenity could hide the obvious shock. He looked up and down the street, as though waiting for some other possible and unforeseen danger. Then, taking me irrationally off guard, he approached. I said nothing, thinking that maybe if I stayed still enough, I would be able to melt with the stone and become completely invisible just like chameleons do. But Oliver leaned against the column, right next to me, and after hunting through the layers of clothing he was wearing, he invited me to a cigarette while he pulled out another one for himself, placing it between his lips.

"Have you been here long?" he asked, offering me the lighter without really offering it—placing a hand in front of the flame to protect it from the wind. I just had to bend over a little, bring the tip of the cigarette closer and inhale.

And so I did.

Too casual; too natural, as though our bodies had memorized a familiar bond that our minds had done everything possible to forget.

"Enough to make people suspect I’m not all there," I replied, pointing a finger at my head.

Oliver delighted me with a chuckle, but we didn't talk more for a while. We smoked quietly as the rest of the world moved unperturbed around us. Weirdly, I felt comfortable; we were two men doing something mundane and inconsequential, even if it really wasn't for me. Not the act of smoking, but coming here to face my responsibilities.

"It's not necessary," Oliver said as soon as he noticed that I was about to speak.

"Let me say it."

"Elio, seriously, you don’t have to—"

"But I _want_ to say it."

He sucked on the filter a couple times, then emptied his lungs of that toxic but addictive smoke and stared at me, as thought this was his way of saying: _All right, spit it out_.

I felt my throat burning and an immediate urge to look away. I didn't want to, I didn't want to show the young and inexperienced Elio classic sign of weakness. But I did it. I looked elsewhere, pretending to put out the cigarette, rubbing it on the stone, and then, hastily, and almost as though someone else was speaking for me, I blurted out, "I'm sorry."

The noise of the city became strident during the brief but endless seconds in which Oliver remained silent. So loud that I had to lean toward him to make sure I hadn't misunderstood his words when he replied, "I'm sorry too."

I was confused and I let him know. Why?

"Because yesterday I overreacted. I was tired, I guess," he added nimbly. Then he paused and before continuing, he licked his lips like an insinuation that what he was going to say next was not just a clarification. "Look, I won't deny it, I thought it would be easier. I thought I could handle the meeting much better than I did."

A feeling of shame after having doubted Oliver’s self-confidence stunned me. There had to be some form of braveness to recognize something like this in such a pure and modest way, and in front of someone to whom he had long ceased to owe explanations.

I let the words take shape, I needed to touch them and hold them because I had the feeling that this was the closest Oliver would come to recognizing that the reunion had at least affected him as much as it had affected me, even if I didn't have the capacity or the courage to admit it.

"Are you hungry?"

Amidst the mob of emotions, the question sounded like something from another time, but I guess my confusion was enough response for him.

"Come on, I invite you to lunch."

I followed him to the hotel’s entrance without a second thought, but I stopped as soon as I set foot on the first step. Oliver turned around.

"I'm going to change," he said, obvious hesitation in his voice. "Do you want to—?"

"I'll wait here," I replied, almost letting the words fall from my mouth because in my mind there was no room for a question as simple as: _Do you want to wait here?_ Or: _Do you want to wait at the reception?_

He nodded as though, indeed, that was the only logical answer and disappeared.

When he came out again, it was like he had been swimming in the waters of a time machine. Leaving aside the spotless attire, he looked more like the Oliver who had won over every single person that had exchanged glances with him in B. and its surroundings. He was showing much less skin, true, but I was convinced that if I closed my eyes and leaned in slightly, I could smell the sunscreen on him.

We walked, talking about everything and nothing, a light conversation that served as a prelude to a day that at least presented itself with better prospects than the previous one. _The weather is starting to change. The longer days are already noticeable. That rain yesterday was wicked. Central Park is becoming more and more crowded with tourists. When was it not? I can't believe they closed the ice-cream parlor on that corner._

I let Oliver speak and gesticulate, as he guided me in a direction he seemed to know very well because he continued to mention this and that other place he had frequented during the time he had lived in the city, until we finally arrived at our destination.

The restaurant was just a few minutes away from Columbia University; it was small and cozy, and so eclectic that it was hard to imagine Oliver fitting here. Parquet floors, walls covered with colored wooden panels in some areas, bare brick in others and plastered ceilings with beautiful moldings in which the passage of time could be read almost like in the rings of a tree trunk. The tables were small with mismatching chairs, but somehow everything worked.

We sat in a corner, Oliver with his back to the door, whereas I settled onto a small green padded bench.

"Interesting place," I said as I put my jacket and backpack aside. "I guess you're going to tell me you used to come here with your colleagues, right?"

"I used to come here with my colleagues." He confirmed with a nod. "Quiet, warm—good people. You just have to come twice and you already feel like you know everybody."

"Sounds good—even if it doesn't suit you that much."

Oliver raised a cautious but curious eyebrow. "And how is that?"

There was humor in his voice, which instilled in me a courage that I was sure I would end up regretting. I was like a clockwork doll that starts up full of energy and doesn’t stop until it crashes into a wall or falls over the edge of a table.

"Look at you," I said, "even dressed casually you look like you're ready to feature on the cover of the Good Son-In-Law Magazine."

"I’m a good son-in-law."

"I have no doubt about it. But this place… take a look; it's chaotic and random, but very aware of it, and it's that acceptance what drags you in—it showcases charisma and personality."

"Are you implying that I lack charisma and personality?"

"Oh, I know you have plenty of both, it's just that you've apparently chosen to hide it for the rest of us."

There was an alarming voice already begging me to stop stepping on the accelerator. But Oliver's lips stretched out in a mischievous smile.

"We haven't been here for more than three minutes and you're already able to psychoanalyze me. This is definitely an Elio I didn't know about."

"As if you were going to remember."

"More than you probably think."

He took one of the menus on the table and opened it, making it clear that he was not going to say anything else. So I followed suit and looked through the dishes, unable to memorize any of them—by the time I got to the price, I had already forgotten if this was the salad with arugula and roasted walnuts, or the one with egg, bacon and chicken, or whether it was a mix of them all.

"Are you up for suggestions? Or do you prefer to ask the waiter?" Oliver asked without looking up and in such a peculiar tone that I wasn't sure if he was being playful or just sarcastic.

I looked at him, then at the waiter, who was serving other customers, and then back at Oliver, whose blue eyes were now fixed on mine.

"What do you recommend?"

"Grilled chicken with vegetables, you'll love it. It's Gloria's specialty, or it was, at least. I don't even know if she's still in the kitchen. Too many things have changed."

I decided it was better not to read too much into that melancholic tone that he had let slip.

"All right… I’ll have the grilled chicken."

Oliver smiled, pleased, and I relaxed.

 

 

He was right; the grilled chicken with vegetables had been a good choice. The side dish with vanilla caramelized onions, cheddar cheese and chipotle mayo was exquisite. But of course I had nothing to compare it to. Oliver was a bit more critical: it wasn't bad, but it lacked Gloria's touch, he explained. The woman had died a couple of years ago, we were told. The news diminished Oliver's mood notably, so the meal went by immersed in a deferential silence.

When I asked about her, Oliver told me that Gloria was one of those women who could bear any burden. She had lost her very young husband to illness, her daughter had died in an accident and her son, who had fallen into a deep depression after the death of his sister, had taken refuge in drugs. He had been found lifeless in an alley, surrounded by dirt and wearing only a T-shirt in the middle of December. But Gloria always overcame every obstacle however formidable. That’s what she showed in public, at least. For those that knew her better it was obvious that the pain was slowly consuming her, Oliver added. Yet, she had never stopped showing affection to whoever decided to cross the threshold of her second home. They were a big little family.

I felt sorry for Gloria, for not having met her and for not having been able to glimpse, even behind a tiny hole in one of the walls, these moments that had clearly made Oliver happy.

"Tell me about the concert," Oliver suddenly said, clearing his throat. "I could hardly ask you about it yesterday."

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, all about it. You have to be very excited."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"That's not an answer."

"Was there a question?"

Oliver placed both elbows on the table. "Are you excited about it?"

I clicked my tongue, a habit I had acquired from Fabi. "I don't know."

And perhaps this was one of the few times I spoke honestly about the subject. I had let it slip to Fabi but I hadn't dared to open up because he, like everyone else, only saw the unique opportunity that I couldn't miss.

"You don’t know?"

I doubted whether it was worthwhile to spill the beans, and tell him what I hadn’t dared to confess to my parents because of the fear I had of disappointing them. But Oliver was just visiting; he would probably forget this conversation when he returned to his hotel to pack his bags and leave again.

"It's weird," I said, "but I feel like it's a gift that I really don't deserve."

"What kind of nonsense is that? Of course you deserve it."

"How do you know that?"

"I've seen you play."

"You saw me play nine years ago, and then I was just a teenager with uncontrollable hormones, trying to impress you."

A bold smile clung to the corner of his lips. "Well, you did."

I shook my head, not letting his boastful pose distract me from the real problem here.

"What makes me more deserving of this than any of the musicians, who go out there on the streets, enduring the weather and the elements in exchange for little recognition and some spare change? I'll tell you: _contacts_. Who cares about talent if you have a father who knows someone who is friends with someone else who knows someone who can organize a gala for you in one of the best theaters in the city? I'm convinced that most attendees will be no more than a bunch of snobs, just grateful to have an excuse to put dead animals around their necks and get drunk for free."

Oliver laughed. "I'm sure among all of those stiff-necks there will be someone able to appreciate your talent."

I snorted. "That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean then? Elio, it's not your fault you were born in a wealthy family—your parents have worked hard to be in this position; nobody has given them anything for free."

"Exactly, they have struggled to make a reputation for themselves; the hardest thing I've ever had to do is make sure I write my last name intelligibly."

There were no more words as the dishes were taken away and we waited for our dessert. Oliver watched me, thoughtfully, as I played with the napkin, folding and unfolding it, then folding it again.

"Why didn't you say no?" Oliver asked once the waiter walked away—cheesecake for him, chocolate cake for me.

"Because I don't want them to be upset. I know they do it with the best of intentions, but sometimes I'd like to do things my way, you know? Imagine for a second, sitting in a remote bar, playing the old piano covered in dust because nobody's dared to touch it in years, and at the end of the night, when there's hardly anyone left and you’re in the farthest corner drinking alone, waiting to be kicked out, someone comes up, extending a card. You look at them, confused, but you see it in their eyes; you perceive they have seen something special in you."

"That’s a good plot for a movie, but Elio, you've studied at Juilliard, no one with two neurons to rub together and a good ear can doubt your abilities."

Not that I was surprised that he knew what had kept me busy for the past few years, but the fact that he had mentioned it so naturally, as though it were a piece of information previously shared between the two of us, made me feel momentary relieved both physically and emotionally.

I smiled.

"I try not to act like the privileged and spoiled kid as I’ve done my whole life, but I don't stop sounding like one, right? I guess there are things you can't change. I should be grateful and all I do is complain about everything all the damn time."

"There's nothing wrong with having certain ambitions, Elio, but sometimes it's better to be practical. If it makes you feel better, I understand what you're trying to say: you want people to look at you without pre-established judgments and value you for what you're capable of, and not for what your last name stands."

That was it.

"Sometimes I think about getting on stage and playing versions of Wham! just to see their expressions."

It was great to have him sitting there, and hear him laugh with me and at me, as though nothing had changed. Only the two of us again, chatting, joking and communicating in a language that nobody else seemed to understand. It was an appealing feeling that unfailingly excited and terrified me equally.

"Well, enough about me," I hastened to say. "Tell me, have you been working on any other book?"

Oliver took the baton without delay, maybe because he had noticed it too, maybe because he was just bored of my undulating self-esteem.

He told me that he was interested in investigating the role of some ancient female philosophers and that he had even begun to gather information, but the move (New England was much more suitable to build a family than the big city), his work and the absorbing marital life had put a stop to everything else. Since Sean had been born, their lives had turned into a beautiful chaos.

"I'm sure there's some way to make up for it all," I said.

Oliver used the napkin to wipe his mouth carefully, and then pushed the empty plate aside. "Surely, but as I've already told you: you grow up and start to analyze situations according to their practicality, and it's very easy to get used to that everyday life. Besides, I don't want to be for my son what my father was for me; always locked up in his office, always busy with his work with no time for anything or anyone… by the time I became a teenager with too many worries and questions, I realized that he was nothing more than a stranger with whom I could barely communicate."

There was a very poorly disguised restlessness in his fabricated naturalness; he had only failed to shake his shoulders to emphasize how little he cared that he didn't have a father figure to look up to and take refuge in. I assumed that somehow it all made sense, and yet it was at times like this when Oliver became a real enigma—too many contradictory signs that made me wonder if maybe I was misjudging him. It was like peeling an onion, stripping it little by little, layer by layer, until there was nothing more than the cold and white meat.

That was all.

However, I realized that with Oliver I had done nothing but scratch the outer wrapper, the one that comes off with deceptive ease, but hides a much more complicated heart to reach.

I wanted to investigate, I wanted to get to know the person sitting in front of me, who seemed to have nothing in common with the man I had shared so many nights of passion with, in a past that seemed too far removed to be real now.

"I guess your wife also appreciates you spending more time with them," I said, trying to sound kind and convincing.

"Of course," he answered without further ado, then turned and signaled for the waiter to bring the bill.

Better to try again later.

"Put that away, I told you it's my treat," Oliver said when he saw me open the backpack and take out my wallet.

"No way, let me pay my share."

I tried to take the receipt but he grabbed my wrist with his free hand to stop me. Then, when he saw that it had the desired effect, meaning: disconcerting me as when you snap a dog out of their bad behavior with a firm _no_ , he let me go.

"It's on me," he insisted.

It had been a brief, almost furtive contact, and yet it had managed to knock me out completely. This was embarrassing.

I slowly put the wallet back in my backpack while he did the maths with the waiter, giving him a generous tip.

"All right, I guess it's my turn to choose the next stop, then," I said casually.

"Is there a next stop?"

"As long as you have nothing better to do."

"I have nothing better to do."

I smiled. He smiled.

"Perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

It was my turn to lead this impromptu stroll, so I took Oliver to the nearest subway. We barely spoke as we waited for the next train, but there was no sign of discomfort in our silence. Oliver had asked me what the plan was just as we'd left the restaurant; I didn't want to give him any clue. It was a surprise, I'd said.

Oliver sat in front of me even though the seat right next to me was empty. I didn't mind, this way I could watch him as the people around us cleared the way for others that got on board accompanied by new smells and voices.

Ahead of us was a nearly thirty minute ride, and just as the lights of a car blind you in the middle of the night, I remembered the last trip we had made together to Bergamo in the _direttissimo_. We had sat side-by-side on that occasion and, inebriated by a wave of happiness, I had leaned my head on his and he had leaned his on mine. It didn't matter who was watching us. I wasn't going to let anyone tarnish our last days together. If they wanted to look, let them look.

Today I watched him from the outside, as a critical spectator analyzing a fictional drama while he spoke to the old woman sitting next to him.

I didn't pay attention to the conversation, but I did allow myself to study his body language, probably in search of some hint that would help me solve the enigma that surrounded him. I didn't come to any conclusion, but at least this time I didn't shy away from the cautious glances he gave me from time to time.

We arrived at 14th Street-Union Square at the expected time. It was windier than before and, in the sky, the clouds danced faster, like brushstrokes that were not subtle anymore, but still not entirely threatening. We only had to walk a little, I assured him just in case, although he hadn’t shown any signs of discomfort or cold.

"I think I have an idea of where we're going," he said.

And it didn't surprise me that he knew. Only a few minutes later, when we stopped in front of Strand bookstore, he chuckled as though to validate his clever suspicions. Entering this place was almost like crossing the gates of paradise for me. I always felt an incessant tingling at the sight of all the shelves full of books.

"This is one of the things I liked most about New York," Oliver said, standing in front of one of the tables and holding a book in his hands, "having the chance to visit somewhere like this on a Sunday."

I was tempted to ask what he was doing on his Sundays now, but something held me back. It was possible that deep down I feared his answer. It didn't matter if he showed reluctance, enthusiasm or indifference. I didn't want to know because at least keeping my distance from him had worked for me in the past (more or less).

I opted for the easiest thing to do and shared a humble anecdote with him, something uncomplicated that nevertheless worked perfectly as a driving force in a jovial conversation. After all, that was the reason why I had presented myself at his hotel this morning, not only to apologize but to show him who I was now.

I told him that this was one of the first places I remembered visiting with my father when we settled in the city during my childhood. Back then, I had felt intoxicated by the nonstop succession of colored spines. Today, I loved coming because you never knew what to expect. It was like a world in itself that always had something new to offer, whether it was a presentation, a lecture, or if you only came to wander around. Or there was the drink you could have with the boy or the girl who, in your visible indecision (and always separately, never at the same time, although that was a fantasy that had crossed my mind more than once), approached you to recommend this or that book.

"I also came here often," Oliver said as we moved down one of the narrow aisles formed by the rows of shelves glued to each other.

"To flirt?"

"To _work_ ," he replied with mockery. "Not only did I spend hours gathering information, this was also one of the first places I came to present my book."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"It's funny because I remember that after settling in on my own, one of the first things I did was to come here looking for some copies to fill the lonely shelf I have in my living room. When I entered the store I saw it," I said, pointing towards the entrance. "The display: _The Hidden Faces of Heraclitus_ by Oliver Coleman, and there you were, looking seductively at the camera."

I forced a smirk, as in an attempt to mock his expression, and Oliver smiled.

"What did you think?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I do," he replied, although there was no confidence in his voice.

"I thought: _That's some bad luck, man_. And then: _Not a bad marketing strategy_."

I wasn't even kidding. I had been convincing myself that my new life in New York would be the best therapy to get over that damn summer, and he had to reappear just like that, unexpectedly, like a bad penny. Or like when you find a dry leaf between the pages of a notebook and wonder at what moment you left it there. I had left Oliver in Italy, so what I least expected was to meet with his printed and laminated version when I had almost forgotten him.

Oliver responded with a genuine smile. "Including the photo was my editor's idea."

"Very smart. It worked with me at least."

"Did you buy the book? I thought I sent a copy to your father."

"Yes, you sent a copy to my _dad_ , but I bought it for _me_."

There was a brief pause; Oliver breathed in and out energetically, and then leaned against one of the shelves. "Did you read it?"

"It’s under the leg of a table."

I didn't want to memorize that peaceful, quiet laugh but I was starting to obsess over it.

"It has to be a very big table."

I shrugged playfully. "In any case, flirting and working are not incompatible, and with that introduction I don’t doubt that you had the opportunity to combine the two. I would have."

"You’ve always shown much more talent than the rest of us. But let me remind you that by then I was already engaged," he said calmly, picking up and opening another book.

I suppose Oliver didn't look like one of those who cheat on his fiancée, much less his wife. But if I had learned anything during these past years, it was not to trust appearances until it was proven that they were reliable. Never judge a book by its cover, as it was commonly said. In fact, I had once read that Good and Evil nest in a man's heart, and the greater the good, the more persistent and strong the temptation to evil is.

I also picked up a book to have something to distract myself. To my surprise, that indolent fate, buzzing at the back of my neck, had wanted me to choose a copy of Ovid _’s Amores_. The fragment that caught my attention said: _When the lasciviousness of our lovemaking occurs to you, touch your radiant cheek with a delicate thumb. If it’s some silent complaint against me you have in mind, shadow your earlobe with a tender hand. When what I do, and say, pleases you, light of my life, keep continually twisting a ring with your fingers._

I put the volume back in its place straightaway and looked at Oliver, who was still pretty much distracted by his book. I scrutinized his composed face and the short stubble covering his jaw's firm line but which didn’t hide the delicate blush on his cheeks, probably caused by the remarkable change in temperature from outside to inside the bookstore.

"I like the smell," I said out of nowhere.

Oliver hummed a questioning noise as he looked up from the pages that kept him so engrossed.

"I like the smell of books," I explained. "It's stimulating and at the same time… calming."

I had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and it was also impossible to guess what conclusion Oliver had reached after my stupid words. First, he chuckled, then he shook his head as though to say " _Oh, Elio, you and your eccentricity_ " and finally he returned his attention to the text in his hands. But something else happened, the thumb of his left hand moved timidly until it brushed the golden band circling his ring finger, turning it carelessly.

Surely it was no more than a coincidence, a tick; an involuntary gesture that manifests itself as a response to certain circumstances. Fabi told me once that he had noticed that I had a habit of touching my ear when I wasn't comfortable with something.

I put my hands in the pockets of my jacket and went ahead to get to the music section. I glanced over some copies that I had seen before and other rarities that looked like new acquisitions.

"Anything by Bach?"

I heard the smile in Oliver’s voice.

"You have an entire section dedicated to him at the end," I said without turning around. "I could spend hours here. There are so many interesting things to discover. Fabi loves this."

I pressed my lips tightly together, not quite sure why, but for some reason mentioning Fabi in front of him made me feel like a traitor all of a sudden. This was our place, a special corner that was part of our unusual relationship.

I checked over my shoulder. Oliver had placed a hand on one of the shelves, and the other on his hip. Just a few steps away from us, was a girl who, with ill-concealed attention, gave him a few clandestine looks. I couldn’t blame her, although Oliver didn’t even seem to have noticed she was there. His eyes were on me, and yet he didn’t show an ounce of curiosity, perhaps because he was not interested, or because he simply expected me to explain further without the need to dig into a matter that was not that important to him anyway.

"We like to look for books with scores by composers we've never heard of," I clarified, very aware that I didn't need to. I was talking about one of the most important people in my life. In any case, I did feel pleased that Oliver not only knew about Fabi's existence but also understood that he was not the only one sharing intimate experiences with other people. "If we find something, we usually go to my apartment and play and reinterpret it, to poor Mr. Freeman’s disgrace. I'm pretty sure the man has the roof marked with the handle of his broom."

Oliver smiled; it was innocent and didn’t seem to reveal much. I didn’t have time to analyze it anyway, as the murmur in the bookstore became louder suddenly and I saw groups of people moving en masse in the same direction.

"What's up today?" Oliver asked the girl, who reacted as though she hadn’t noticed Oliver's presence until that moment. I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes.

"Apparently there’s a talk about what modern society has in store for the new decade."

Oliver turned to me, raising an eyebrow as though to ask: _Are you interested?_

"Go if you want," I said. "I'm gonna take another look around here."

The girl, who didn't seem to be much older than me, was delighted to become Oliver’s companion, and the two of them quickly joined the human tide that moved like a flock of starlings.

It seemed the temperature had fallen a few degrees now that I was alone, or almost alone. I walked through the aisles with some renewed freedom, caressing the smooth and rough spines, new and old, with my fingertips. I had decided, at that very moment, that I wanted to find something for Oliver, a book that would express the things that were so complicated to say out loud without me feeling that I was meddling unfairly in matters of which I really knew very little about.

The first book I found was not the one I was looking for, but I took it anyway, carried by a tender feeling of rebellion. I was not able to locate the second one, however. I walked around the maze of shelves like an automaton with a blank mind, trapped in its own world while reading and memorizing titles and authors.

"Do you need help?"

I jerked clumsily as frogs do in a lonely pond.

At the end of the hall was one of the clerks, a tall, lanky boy pushing a cart while placing books where anyone else would think there was no room for more. I was sure I had seen him before. In fact, I didn't even rule out the possibility of having had a conversation with him. The boy stopped what he was doing and looked at me in a curious way while my mind made one last effort to recover a specific moment.

"Wasn't it you I recommended to read Allen Ginsberg's _Howl_?"

That was it then. It had happened on a typical boring winter day. I had spent hours and hours working on _Perfect for Tears_ , as Fabi called it, one of those melodies that come from within you with the same impatience with which lava struggles to reach the surface during a volcanic eruption. Emotionally, it had left me so exhausted that I'd only found some consolation in a bottle of wine. After drinking more than half of it the stupid melancholy gave way to humiliation, so I left my apartment in search of some fresh air and something to distract myself with. I ended up here, buying that shameless book of poems after a conversation I could barely remember. What now did seem to emerge fleetingly in my memory was the coffee we'd had afterwards and that I had ended up vomiting on a desolate street corner along with all the alcohol I had ingested hours before.

"Yes, it's possible," I replied.

"Did you like it?"

"It's interesting because of its content, not so much because of its style."

"A lot of people say that, but maybe that's where its appeal lies, don't you think?" His lips morphed into a sweet smile. "At least I hope you feel better today."

That was too much for me, especially because I couldn't even imagine the string of stupid things that I had come to confess in my inebriated state.

"I'm trying to find a book." I changed the subject quickly, hoping that he would get the message.

It didn't take him long to offer me some help, and as soon as I told him what book I was looking for he led me to the other side of the bookstore. He showed me two different versions.

"This is one of the most recent, and this other one is a first edition. It’s a bit worn as you can see, but that depends on your own preferences. It's an interesting choice either way."

"It's a gift," I said, as though that explained everything, although it also might've been a way of saying, _I didn't come alone today, so don't keep trying._ Which was a grotesque thought; there was nothing binding Oliver and me anymore, and it was apparent that when this day would be over and I returned to my apartment, there would be no one waiting for me.

I chose the first edition, paid for the two books and headed to the corner where the talk was taking place, following a wave of laughter. I saw some tables full of canapés and drinks. Meanwhile, in the middle of the room, people crowded together, some sitting and many others standing around a small stage on which a man with glasses and long white hair (that seemed not to have seen a comb in years) moved enthusiastically from one side to the other, microphone in hand.

"But are we really prepared for these changes? I mean, obviously we know that young people are always willing to try new things, but look at me: I’m an old man. Have you ever heard of those mobile phones that they want to put out on the market? Can you imagine being able to be located anytime, anywhere? Oh! I see some enthusiastic expressions around here. My friends that can only mean that you aren’t married."

People erupted with a loud burst of laughter.

I looked for Oliver, and found him leaning against one of the columns—by his side, the young woman who had accompanied him giggled, nodding and placing a hand on Oliver's arm as though to make sure he too had caught the joke. Oliver responded accordingly but got rid of that confident touch with subtlety.

I smiled.

"Modern society in which we are immersed at this precise moment, is supposed to have already gone through the unstable phase of the modernization process," continued the man, "but the reality is that this has only just begun. Technology is advancing by leaps and bounds, and the world, as we know it now, will change completely in just a few years. This will bring many good things. Yes! That possibility of instant communication may be one of them. _But_ it will undoubtedly bring a lot of bad shit too. I’ll ask the same question again, my dear friends, young people and dinosaurs like me: Do you think the foundations of our society are really prepared for a technological earthquake of such magnitude?"

Many raised their arms to ask for the floor. I turned my attention back to the column: the girl was still there, but there was no sign of Oliver. I scanned the crowd, and I saw him making his way in my direction. When he finally managed to reach me, I realized that he had two plastic cups in his hands. He offered me one—it was wine—then leaned over to whisper in my ear.

"I suspect the Nutty Professor had a few of these before he went on stage."

I smelled the alcohol and drank trying to overlook the frenetic tingling that ran down my spine.

"No responsibilities today?" I asked, almost hypnotized by the movement of his throat as Oliver emptied his cup, still distracted by the colloquy that was taking place.

"I'll sleep on the plane," he said, quietly and firmly. "Are you interested in this?"

"Not too much."

"Then let's get out of here. I have to make a call."

We looked for the nearest telephone booth. While Oliver was making his call, I kept a prudent distance, not only because I still had some manners left in me but also because I didn’t trust my ability to keep my indiscreet hearing at bay—even so, and although Oliver kept a soft and intimate tone all the time, I was able to overhear a few phrases.

_How's Sean?_ One of the first questions, as expected.

_Have you talked to Rebecca about it?_ I had no idea who Rebecca was.

_It's best to leave it for when I get back._ That sounded interesting.

_I miss the both of you too._ Was it starting to get cold, or was it just me?

_I love you._ I snorted.

When Oliver approached me, I had found entertainment cleaning some sunglasses I had unearthed from my backpack. There wasn't much sun, the clouds were getting heavier, but wearing them I felt like I could create a safety barrier between me and what I wanted to keep my distance from.

"You look like a rock star," Oliver joked. "The hair, the clothes, the sunglasses…"

"Maybe someday."

"Yeah maybe. I see you bought something," he added, pointing at the bag in my hand.

"Actually, I bought something for you."

"For me?"

I pulled out the book that I had made them wrap in Kraft paper (a completely stupid waste now that I was thinking about it) and gave it to him, even though Oliver seemed pretty much confused.

"Elio, you didn't have—"

"It's for the lunch. Now we're even."

Oliver stared blankly at me for a moment before he decided to tear apart the perfectly folded paper. I remembered this look, the same as years back I had interpreted as a hostile response to every single one of my pointless actions.

" _The Stranger_ …"

"It was published in 1942, this is one of the first editions," I pointed out as though I was giving a special value to the gift this way. "I hope you haven't read it."

"I've heard of it but no, I haven't read it," he said as he turned it around studying the cover, then the back cover, and then the front cover again. "Thank you."

His voice sounded small, like when someone does something you don't expect and you don't find the right words to express what you feel.

"It’s nothing."

I didn't want him to give it more importance than it had. Moreover, right now, I just wanted him to put it next to the many other books I was sure he had and to never look at it again. Or if he did, that it would happen years later, so when his mind started to formulate questions after reading the last pages, he could no longer remember where the book had come from.

"Have you bought something for yourself, too?" he asked, erasing at the stroke of a pen the strange mist that had wrapped us for a moment.

Oliver didn't suppress a laugh when I showed him the other book in the bag. His book.

"I thought you already had it."

"I told you, it’s under the leg of a table. This one is for the shelf. Besides, it's not every day that you can brag about spending an evening with a renowned author."

"I'm no renowned author."

"What does it matter? Will you sign it for me?"

Oliver blinked a couple of times, maybe to make sure I wasn't kidding. I wasn't.

"Sure, do you have a pen?" He reached out to grab the book, but I put it away.

"No, not now. Later."

_Later._

I showed an incomprehensible reticence, and Oliver noticed.

"Okay…" he replied with a hint of doubt before he looked at the sky. I think he said something about rain but I felt too stunned, as though I had just escaped from a boxing ring, to pay attention to his meteorological deductions. "Well, I guess it's my turn to choose the next stop, right?"

"Are we going to make a game out of this?"

He responded with a broad smile. It was enough for me.

He asked me to put the book in the backpack, adjusted his trench coat and, with a quick nod, told me to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

"I thought you were more the Metropolitan type," I joked, taking a look at the historic building where the New Museum was located.

"You have an unfairly old-fashioned image of me, don't you think?" Oliver opened the door and invited me in with a gesture of his hand. No hard feelings.

"I don't know, Oliver, what image do you think I should have?"

"That of a person who knows perfectly well how to manage their time, for example," he said slyly. "Getting to the Metropolitan would make us waste at least twenty minutes, without even mentioning the queues. Besides, I'm sure you've been to both places so, is it worth it?"

It hadn't taken us much less time to get here on foot. Even so, I let myself be captivated by the lively conversation that accompanied us once I forgot the phone call. At this moment, in the here and now, it was just Oliver and me. I didn't care about anything else.

"Of course I've visited both, everything in this life has an antithesis: the strong and the weak, the sweet and the bitter, the classic and the modern; women and men… why enjoy only one thing when you can have both?"

We entered a room with perfectly painted white walls that contrasted with the dark slate floors on which were distributed random pieces of vague shapes and different materials: wood, clay, steel… According to the flyer at the entrance, the exhibition was called _The Spatial Drive_ and represented a shift from static self-contained art objects toward reconfigurable arrangements and experiential environments. The main piece, and the one that stood out the most because of its size, was a hollow, narrow cardboard tube that crossed the room from side to side, held and lifted by some wooden wedges. At each end there was a tree trunk cut in half. I saw Oliver move away to sit on the other end, settle down and place his mouth over the tube. I sat on the other trunk and put my ear closer.

"What makes you think that I don't know how to enjoy it as much as you do?"

I sat up immediately, as though I had suffered a stroke, just as the knee behaves when a doctor hits it to see if your body reacts correctly to stimuli. Was this a reasonable reaction, though? I looked around us; there were no more than eight people including Oliver and me present, and they all seemed deep in their own thoughts. They couldn't have listened to Oliver anyway, and even if they had, this was just a frivolous conversation in the ears of any stranger. It wasn't what he said that made me jump like a residual-current circuit breaker after an electric shock; it had been his voice. Feeling and hearing it as though he wasn't about twenty feet away from me—no echoes or the typical resonance of sound moving through an empty space. His voice had sounded the same as it had in those lazy moments when we had curled up together, exhausted; fingers, ankles, legs, arms. It had been almost impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. We had been just two humans consumed by an irrational love, and it had been the best feeling in the world. He had taken a part of me and I had taken a part of him, to the point that his name had become mine, mine his, and when our breaths evened out, and there had been only the crooning of the crickets, he’d used to whisper in my ear: _Where have you been all this time, Oliver?_

I stood up, trying to hide as best I could the agitation that was making my legs feel weightless. Oliver got up too. I walked with a confidence that I hoped wouldn’t be perceived in the same way as a drunk trying to act as though he were sober. We met right in the middle of the sculpture, each on one side of it, while the long tube seemed to physically trace the dividing line that kept our two worlds apart.

"I don't know," I said slowly, looking elsewhere, as though we were only expressing our opinions of the artistic work on display. "I’ve always had the impression that you navigate through the middle of everything; an easy path, without risks.”

"Oh, so that's it."

It was strange to hear my own voice saying these words. It was something I had thought about many times, when I couldn't help but formulate in my head the obnoxious " _What if…_ " while speculating not only how things might have been if we had made completely different decisions but why it seemed that the chosen path had been the only reasonable one.

We passed in front of a guy and a girl playing, putting their feet inside two large blocks of stone. With them was the creator of the work happily explaining its meaning. They reminded me of the _zoccoli_ made of wood that peasants used to wear, only bigger and less practical. I was sure there were a couple of them forgotten in the villa’s attic.

Oliver and I went to another room; it was narrow and long, and completely empty. Next to the doorframe was a small sign announcing: _Evening in Paris II_. In the center, two high columns guarded a simple white bench; the lighting was dim and blue. I sat down not quite sure if I should say something after making such an accusation, or if it was better to wait for Oliver to express how wrong I was. Or better yet, pretend I didn't say anything at all.

"So you think I've chosen the safe and easiest way. Okay…" he said in the end, walking around the room, contemplating the dancing circles projected on the walls. He spoke calmly, although it was evident that he hadn’t taken my words well. "Tell me one thing then, Elio: what does someone rebel against who never really had anything to rebel against?"

I wasn't quite sure if Oliver had asked this question aware of the words that Chiara had said one day I had caught them eating ice cream and walking arm in arm, but I remembered it perfectly. She had stated that the only reason I was such a good and polite boy was because I had never had rules to break. What Chiara hadn't understood (especially since by then I hadn't either) and what Oliver seemed to ignore now, was that outside the four walls in which I had grown up, the world awaiting me was exactly the same as the one (I was assuming) he was hiding from.

"Well, I think there's no greater act of courage than accepting yourself no matter what it’s in life that you're at war with," I said, and barely aware of what I was doing, I pulled away the jacket and subtly lifted the sweater, showing the small but perceptible scar that sketched an ugly, irregular line on my left side.

In a fraction of a second, Oliver's face outlined a pattern of emotions ranging from arrogance to surprise, incomprehension; to finally ending up on something that could only be described as anger—although, I was absolutely sure that his rage was not directed at me.

"Have you ever been to Paris?" I quickly ventured to prevent him from asking the questions that clearly weighed on the tip of his tongue.

"I've been to Bordeaux," he said, cautiously.

"I've never been to _Bordeaux_ , but I'd like to go back to Paris; visit Marzia… did you know she's getting married next year? She has asked me to play and read something at the ceremony. I have a notebook full of embarrassing anecdotes from when we were little."

Oliver smiled quietly, at last. "I'm glad to hear you're still close."

"We tried, you know? After—we really tried. But it didn't work. I guess we're meant to be just friends. But I'm glad we didn't rule it out without giving it a chance."

"I hope you don't do that with everything…"

"I know I'm doomed to spend some time in purgatory so, why not make the experience worthwhile?"

It was a relief that the tension that haunted us, like vultures among the rocks, had returned to its lair for the moment.

It was not like I had a plan in mind, anyway. All I had been thinking about this morning was how to apologize without looking too desperate (and above all, too stupid). Everything else: the lunch, the visit to the bookstore and now the museum, was a nice compensation for which I was very grateful. I wasn't provoking Oliver on purpose, I wasn't looking for a confrontation with him. But I also couldn't overlook the fact that, just like during our last days in Bergamo, the clock worked with precision, setting a deafening and unstoppable pace. I didn't want to end this day, and see him go again, with the feeling that we still had a score to settle.

We left behind the Parisian night recreation and entered a new room. Here the walls were painted such a dark blue that they merged with the black floor—only the white columns stood out in an almost gloomy atmosphere. An exploration of death in the Western world and the myriad historical, social, and cultural practices associated with it, Oliver read in the booklet. _The Interrupted Life_ , it was called. It made sense.

"Perfect for a Sunday afternoon," he added, intending it as a joke but sounding far too serious.

I passed by a glass cube with the face of a man sliced in half, immersed in a viscous liquid. I imagined it was just a molded figure, but it still made me shiver. I continued walking and dodged a pile of lace gloves lying on the floor, which seemed to form the abandoned veil of a bride. There were also strange drawings scattered here and there, interspersed with photographs: news, crimes, morgues, autopsies… although what struck me the most was a large image that showed a couple of half-closed eyes, clearly lifeless. It was a close shot but you could see the face of a young boy, with no identity, no name. It could be anyone.

My stomach turned in such a way that I had to put a hand over my mouth. It felt like an unexpected punch of reality. What if it all ends tomorrow or in a few hours? Or just when we leave this place? I hadn't forgotten my father’s words after Oliver’s departure. With a delicacy very much his own but unanticipated by me, he had told me not to deny pain because pain was part of our experiences, and it was in our hands to learn from it—we'll live only once. Suffering was part of the learning curve. But was I really using the time I had been given wisely?

Fabi's words about how oblivious we were about what we offered of ourselves to others took on a whole new meaning. It was almost discouraging to look back and understand all the opportunities I had wasted, being unable to detach myself from a past that, for better or worse, had changed me forever.

Somehow Oliver had always been there, even when I thought I had forgotten him, clinging to a remote corner of my mind like a leech takes hold of flesh. Somewhere, I was still hoping that Oliver would come to his senses and look for me. We had been happy before, why couldn't we be happy now? And it was in this now that I understood how those anodyne expectations had clouded my sanity, precluding any idea of commitment to anyone other than him.

How stupid I'd been.

I had taken advantage of everything that had been offered to me, that was true, but I realized that it had been nothing more than a way to keep dry a wound that, as my father had said, I had never let heal—a way to fight to stay afloat in a storm that constantly reminds you that its only mission is to drown you. Neither casual sex nor my failed relationships had been enough to put an end to a memory that I was unable to let go of, and not because they hadn’t been good or satisfactory. In nine years I’d been fortunate enough to experience great things with beautiful lovers. However, it was me who refused to let these experiences weigh anchor and drag me away from that summer.

I had called Sophie crazy when she put my bags outside her door, fed up, accusing me of being a wandering spirit incapable of getting involved with anything or anyone. Alcohol had become a secret companion over the years—that night, drunk as a skunk, I had met Fabi, the only man, besides Oliver, whom I had allowed to touch me more than once, and the only one that I was able to show my true self: a person full of virtues but also shaped by huge flaws.

What was I doing with my life?

An electric chill ran up my spine when I noticed Oliver standing right behind me, looking at the picture that had kept me absorbed for God knows how long. We stood there for a few minutes, the silence only interrupted by the heavy heels of people coming and going.

I tried to imagine how this day would end. I wondered if Oliver would accompany me to my apartment, and if he did, would he agree to come up for one last drink before he left again? Or would he just stay by the door and offer me the handshake that I had denied him yesterday? _It’s been a pleasure to see you again, have a good night._ What if it was me who accompanied him to his hotel to make sure he arrived safely, as I had promised him at the cafe? Would he invite me in? Maybe to the bar, maybe to his room. Maybe first to the bar, then to his room. My cock approved this last thought. My mind, however, wondered if it was worth the risk.

Maybe, like the first time, all I needed was to try it to see if I liked it or not. Maybe all I needed was to get the monkey off my back, let him fuck me like in the old days—feel him inside me again. Would Oliver let me be inside him? I didn't care who ended up being on top, but I needed to be sure if this was really what I longed for or, on the contrary, conclude that it hadn't been that bad, but the Oliver of the present wasn't for me.

But what if it was not like that? What if I liked it as much or more than the first time, now that the years had given me experience and confidence? There was one unavoidable reality: Oliver was married. There was a wife and a child, and another on the way. Nothing that happened today would prevent him from taking a plane the next day, leaving me here, in the same well I was before when I picked up the phone a couple of days ago.

Oliver placed his hand on my shoulder, putting an end to all that amalgam of confusing thoughts abruptly. My mind went completely blank, as though it needed to block out everything that interrupted the feeling of those fingers touching me.

"How about we get out of here?" he said, leaning forward to make sure that it was only me listening.

I don't know if Oliver noticed the slight nod of my head, I assumed he did because he carefully squeezed the muscles near my neck before he walked out of the room. I needed a moment, memorizing the pressure those fingers had exerted, until the effect faded away.

I found Oliver outside lighting up a cigarette.

"Have you learned nothing from what we just saw?" I asked as though I hadn't been about to faint from mind exhaustion.

Oliver smiled, took a quick drag and opened the package to pull out a new one. I thought he was going to offer it to me, but instead he gave me the cigarette he was holding between his lips. I took it with gusto, sucking on it before the moisture of his mouth disappeared because I knew this would probably be as close as I would ever be to feeling it again.

"It's my turn, isn't it?" I said.

Oliver instigated me to lead the way.

 

 

As we headed north, Oliver started telling me stories about his dog. His dog! Wife, child, dog—there was no doubt they were the perfect embodiment of the American family ideal. But back to the dog, it seemed that Dewey (named after one of _DuckTales'_ characters because it was Sean's favorite) was a faithful and beloved animal, but had a strange fixation for Oliver's socks. I never thought there could be so many anecdotes about a dog’s love for socks, but there were.

"I don't know what the hell he's doing with them, but I've lost count of how many new pairs I've had to buy."

"They're probably all buried in the garden." Because I was fairly sure that they had a beautiful, spacious garden.

I told him about _Bartolomeo_ —Bartolo—a cat that lived in the villa until I was thirteen. No one was sure how the cat got there (although we all suspected that Mafalda had been secretly feeding him when he was just a stray kitten), but over the years he had become a fixture in the house. Bartolo went in and out when and how he wanted. Sometimes he slept at the foot of my bed, other times we spent days not knowing his whereabouts. Then, came the day when strange things began to happen. Mafalda claimed that someone was sneaking into the pantry at night to steal food. First, she started accusing Manfredi, her husband, and then the blame went to Anchise. The two men swore that they had no need to steal food when they could enter the pantry whenever they wanted. It's the ghosts, Anchise had said with great conviction, while Manfredi had no doubt that the author of the misdeeds was Bartolo. "Don’t you see how fat he is?" he’d asked. Yet Mafalda didn’t take her eyes off them both. Until one day she got us all out of bed, screaming hysterically. When we went down to the kitchen, we found her in the pantry, rolling pin in hand and ready to attack while Manfredi kept repeating: “ _Te l’ho detto! È il gatto, è il gatto!"_

"And there we all were, in our nightgowns and pajamas while Bartolo, with a piece of bread in his mouth, looked at us as if we were all completely crazy."

Oliver almost died laughing.

Shortly after we arrived at Washington Square Park—my choice. It wasn’t very crowded; the weather, changing faster and faster, wasn’t helping. There was hardly any blue in the sky anymore, and no one seemed to want to risk facing a rainstorm like yesterday. Still, I insisted on buying us some ice cream at a small street stall. Oliver wanted to pay for them, but it was my turn, my rules.

We headed for the central plaza; the huge arch commemorating the centennial of George Washington's presidency was on the other side, while the brave people who still hung about lounged around the fountain overflowing with water after spending most of the winter empty.

Oliver and I opted to sit on one of the farthest benches, him in the seat (as any normal person would do) and me on the backrest. We ate the ice cream quietly as we watched the people enjoying what was left of the Sunday afternoon: children running around, boys and girls kissing without caring and old couples who, even after a whole life together, still walked holding hands.

"How did it happen?" Oliver asked after a while.

I looked at him perplexed; he pointed with his head and added, "The scar."

He spoke in a tone that was clearly meant to sound unperturbed, but despite his effort, Oliver was unable to hide his concern. It was flattering in some way, but I didn't feel like talking about it.

"It doesn't matter," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

Oliver didn’t appreciate my evasive response, but neither did he insist. It wasn’t worth going into details, after all, by the way Oliver had asked the question, it was obvious that he knew the cause and therefore the answer perfectly well. Besides, I didn't want to bring Fabi up any more than necessary in this thorny affair between Oliver and me. The memory was fuzzy anyway; I only remembered that someone had said something offensive to Fabi and that he, as was his way, didn’t hesitate to confront the man. Suddenly a crowd had formed around them. I had gotten in the middle to make sure Fabi was okay and to get him out of there, but suddenly I’d been lying on the floor, feeling a strong pain in my left side. We’d spent the rest of the night in ER, Fabi with a swollen eye and a bruised cheek, and me with a torn shirt soaked in blood in need of a few stitches. It must have been a bottle, someone had mentioned in the middle of all the fuss. It didn't matter; the damage had already been done. Worst of all, though, had been to lie while pretending that absolutely nothing had happened. At least I had been able to hide my war wound under my clothes.

"Not bad, huh?" I said after a while, sucking on the plastic spoon making sure not to leave a single piece of ice cream on there.

As though he had no choice but to accept the change of topic, Oliver nodded reluctantly. "No, it's not bad, but nothing compares to the Italian Jelaterias."

" _Gelatterias_ … I see your accent is still just as bad."

Oliver hit me playfully with his shoulder on the knee. I liked to see and hear him laugh; it made him look much younger and innocent.

"But I agree, it can't compare," I added. "I miss it."

"I miss it, too."

"Really? I’m aware you went back to B. not so long ago."

"I know, but it was only a few days, and it wasn't the same…"

"What else do you miss, then?"

It was a tricky question, and I hadn't even noticed it until the words fell from my lips. If Oliver had taken offence, however, he showed no sign of it. In fact, he responded immediately with a broad, nostalgic smile.

"I miss the tranquility, lazing around in the sun, the soft boiled eggs and Mafalda making sure that my clumsiness didn't ruin them, every-single day. I miss the apricot juice, the sound of the fountain, swimming in the lake, the morning jogs, the bike rides…"

He paused suddenly and turned to look at me. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a stinging pain in my chest. I think I even forgot to breathe. I could only concentrate on two things: trying to decipher what those blue eyes in which I had immersed myself so many times and that now were as familiar as strangers, expressed, and keeping myself as quiet as possible while my brain kept yelling at him, "Come on, Oliver, say it, say it, say it!"

But Oliver said nothing, turned his gaze to the empty cardboard cup in my hands and asked if I was finished. I was not sure how much further I could push him before he got tired, would grab me by the shoulders and exclaim that I should forget him once and for all before throwing me into the void, getting rid of me without any remorse.

Maybe it was time to retreat while I still had some dignity left? My father had once told me that, in most cases, throwing in the towel was more a sign of good judgment than of cowardice. But had I ever shown common sense?

Oliver put my cup into his and walked away to throw them in the nearest bin.

It wasn't that complicated really, when he came back I just had to say: _Look Oliver, it's been great, but it's time for me to go_ —a neutral farewell, neither too melodramatic nor too cold. So why did it seem that my heart was going to jump out of my mouth just by thinking about it? What made me think that saying goodbye later would be easier? It wasn't any different from when, as a child, you feel a loose tooth and although you know that it will end up falling out on its own, living with the discomfort becomes unbearable. So the best thing to do is to pull it out as soon as possible—a quick tug, no thinking, and the suffering ends in the blink of an eye.

I tried to phrase a coherent good-bye in my head without taking my eyes off Oliver, but my brain wasn't willing to collaborate.

Oliver came back, stopped in front of me, looked up at the sky as he had done outside the bookstore and again mentioned something about the rain. Then he checked his watch.

"Well, it's my turn, right?" he said. "There's a bar not far from here; they have an amazing selection of beers. It's not a bad place to take shelter before it starts raining. What do you think?"

"Sounds great."

What a chicken I was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

It only took us ten minutes to get to our next stop, but a few drops of rain had already started to fall by then. The boozer smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke, which hung in the air. It was typical old New York: narrow and murky, with wooden ceilings and floors, and a stained and scratched bar. But that was its charm.

Oliver asked me to pick a table while he ordered our drinks. The place wasn't very crowded, only a few lonely men hanging about. There was no conversation, just the murmur of the television that nobody paid attention to. I chose the table furthest from the door, using the opportunity to take a look around. Behind the bar, it was almost impossible to distinguish the bottles from the clutter piled up: old clocks, all sorts of copper teapots and coffee pots—there was even a bust of JFK. The walls were covered with pictures; there was not a single space where there wasn’t a frame with images of famous people, significant events and portraits of personalities that, for whatever reason, had dropped by. Just like the restaurant we had lunch at, it was hard for me to imagine Oliver in this place, uninhibited, drinking and sharing all kinds of silly jokes, as any other _real man_ would do. But maybe Oliver was right, and I had a completely distorted image of him. Or at least, of the man I figured he was on this side of the pond.

There was something going on here, though; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—perhaps the fact that it was more than evident that I was the youngest man present, but I didn’t feel comfortable. I moved, sitting with my back to the bar just before Oliver came up with our drinks: two huge mugs full of dark, frothy beer.

"Wow…" I said amazed.

"I’ve taken the liberty of choosing for you, I hope you like it. Although, as you said: my turn, my rules." Oliver settled next to me, facing the entrance. "Do you think you can handle this?"

"What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, just wondering if you'll end up barking at the moon."

"I wasn't that drunk."

"You threw up in the middle of the street! I bet you don't even remember you wanted to bring a Dutch girl to the hotel."

"You're making that up."

"Not at all."

"And did we?"

Oliver laughed, shaking his head.

"Thank goodness, it would’ve been the last straw. Fulfilling one of my fantasies and not even remembering it."

I was only joking, or at least partly joking, but I had to drink a good sip of beer. I needed it—something cold that would distract my senses for a second. I wasn’t prepared for the memory of that last night in Bergamo so suddenly, without analgesics to numb the pain. It was true that I had many blanks of that night, but I was sure that I remembered perfectly well each and every important event. Even today, whenever I visited the city, I passed by that corner in _Piazza Duomo_ where we had kissed as though there was no turning back and the world was about to end. And certainly, a part of my world was completely extinguished that night.

"Do you like it?" Oliver asked, pointing his finger as he set the mug on the table.

"Not bad, rather bitter for my taste."

"I knew I should have asked for something sweeter for you."

"Stop insulting me, will you? I'm also American."

"Only one third, right?"

"Exactly, the perfect combination. And my dominant European blood should give me some advantage."

"Maybe if we were talking about wine, but as far as I know you have no German ancestors."

"No, but I can say a couple of things in German besides: good morning, good afternoon, thank you and I'm very sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to step on your foot."

"Like what?"

" _Darf ich dir einen Drink ausgeben?_ Can I buy you a drink? And: _Ich will in deinem Mund kommen_."

"And what does that mean?"

"Believe me, you don't want to know," I said, quite pleased with myself as I sipped my beer.

"You goose."

I nearly choked on my drink. I had almost forgotten his favorite phrase. Did he just say it because it was a tagline of his that he used unconsciously with everyone? Or had he dropped it because he still remembered what he used to call me when I behaved insolently as I was doing right now?

My inherent fear preferred to live in ignorance for the moment.

Oliver looked away, sighing deeply. Bored? Perhaps disappointed that I hadn’t picked up the gauntlet with which he had challenged me? Give me some clear clue, damn it, Oliver! Or I assure you that I’ll end up doing something stupid that I’ll surely regret for the rest of my life.

"Drink slowly," he said.

It wasn't until I left the mug on the wooden table that I realized that I had downed almost half of it in one go. I already felt dizzy, and Oliver's half smile told me he was aware of it.

"It's not fair, why doesn't it affect you in the same way?"

"Because I'm six foot five and have more muscle mass to compensate."

"Are you calling me puny?"

Oliver laughed. "No."

"Good, because I don't remember you having any problems with my body in the past."

Another person might not have noticed, but I saw Oliver's shoulders tense as he scanned the place quickly before looking back at me. Then he drank more beer— _much_ more beer.

"I wasn't complaining," he said, in a tone too ambiguous to be interpreted in any way. It didn't sound like an apology; neither was it sarcastic enough to incite me to keep going on with a tug-of-war that ran the risk of ceasing to be harmless too soon.

"I have gained weight," I said because at this point anything sounded as appropriate as it did stupid.

Oliver frowned, looking at me as though I had gone mad.

"I’m serious. Look at this," I said as I pinched my stomach over my clothes.

"You've got nothing there," he laughed at me.

Ask Fabi, he loves biting it when he goes down on me, I was about to say. Obviously, I didn't.

The tranquility inside the bar was interrupted by the rumbling of a loud thunder that entered the scene as an overture to the hail that began to fall immediately after, crashing furiously against the windows.

I was grateful for the impasse; it was impossible to know where this exchange could have led us. It was not discomfort what I saw in Oliver’s face, but there was a more than perceptible reticence each time my words seemed to cross a boundary that he had clearly enclosed with a stone wall, high enough for me to pass by and say hello over it but nothing else.

"Did you come here often?" I asked to direct the tête-à-tête to neutral ground.

"Sometimes," he said calmly, savoring his drink, "but apparently a lot of things changed; there’s a new owner running it and that, unfortunately, shows… Back then, it was always packed, so many people came that even those who couldn’t get in stayed having their drinks at the entrance. The doors were always wide open, so if you couldn’t make some room inside, you had no problem being part of the party outside. There was a good atmosphere. But now…" He looked over my shoulder again, "not so much."

"Did you come with her?"

Okay, yes, an uncontrollable combatant spirit possessed me.

Oliver watched me thoughtfully, possibly studying the intention of the question in order to ponder the appropriate response. He drank more beer, slowly, as though considering every move.

"Yes, sometimes, with our group of friends," he finally said.

"Where did you meet her?"

Oliver groaned. "Why are you asking me these questions, Elio?"

"Because that's what adult people do when they have a conversation, ask how your life has been and that sort of thing."

He shook his head vigorously. "You don't want to know this."

"I'm asking you."

"Why?"

"Why not? You told me about your dog, why can't we talk about your wife?"

Silence settled on our table like another comrade. Inside the bar, only the commentators on the television gave life to an atmosphere that became increasingly depressing, whereas outside the hail had given way to heavy rain.

"I wish you'd been in B. two years ago," Oliver said, twirling the mug absently. "You’d have met them, Sean and Charlotte, so maybe you wouldn't hate her so much."

I turned to look at him, perplexed by the audacity of that statement. It almost surprised me to see him looking so subjugated, like someone who’s giving up on a situation, knowing that there is nothing else they can do.

"Is that why you avoid talking about her, because you think I hate her?"

Speaking the words out loud made the gravity of the situation even more real, and it scared me. Was this the reason Oliver had walked away from me? Was it because he didn't want me to project my resentments onto his wife?

"You don’t get it, do you?" I snapped, and continued before he could intervene: "I don't hate Charlotte, why should I? I don't know her. And I don't know anything because _you_ never bothered to tell me a single thing about her. She is not my problem, Oliver; _you_ are. And since we’re talking about it, let me tell you that I did come to hate you for some time. You lied to me—"

"I didn't lie to you, I just—"

"You weren't honest! I didn't hide from you what was going on with Marzia. I felt that I knew you; I trusted you. I gave myself to you happily because I thought I knew you—clearly I was wrong…" I needed to drink, my throat was dry and my voice was beginning to betray me.

"Don't say that," he said in an almost inaudible voice. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I just want to know why."

"I don't know, Elio, I don't know…"

"You don't know or you don't have the balls to tell me?"

In a second Oliver's weary expression turned into a much harder one. He placed his elbows on the table; his face was so close to mine that I would’ve had to lean back to be able to properly look him in the eye. I didn’t.

"Why don't you tell me, Elio, since you seem to be so sure of everything." He didn't raise his voice, but his tone made his uneasiness very clear.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Go ahead."

"I think Italy was the perfect excuse for you; nobody knew you, so you had no problem being someone else. Or maybe not someone else but the person you clearly didn't allow yourself to be over here. I was unfair to Marzia, but at least I assumed responsibilities for what I did. Tell me, Oliver, does Charlotte know anything about what happened between us? I bet she doesn’t. And I don't blame you, okay? But at least don't pretend that what we had wasn't crucial in your decision to get engaged as soon as you stepped off the plane."

Oliver's eyes clouded and remained that way, impassive, fixed on mine, for a few long seconds. I wanted to know, I _needed_ to know what was going through his head. But his face reflected no emotion. There was nothing. I knew that I had gone too far, and that this could be the perfect spur for Oliver to get up and leave. Ironically, I wasn't even sure if I'd be offended by it. What right did I have to be? What was clear to me, however, was that I couldn’t continue to torture myself in silence as I repeated over and over again all those questions intended for someone who, until today, had never been there to listen to them, nor to give them an answer.

Oliver leaned against the back of the chair, grabbed his drink and emptied it—his gaze was elsewhere. When he put the mug back on the table, his attitude changed completely; there was doubt and disquiet in the extremely subtle way in which he moved.

"I'm not going to say you're wrong, but neither are you totally right," he said softly, not looking at me. I was surprised not to hear an ounce of aversion in his voice. In fact, the only thing I could perceive was sincere sadness. "I know I owe you explanations. I know, Elio. But could we not have this conversation here?"

It was at that moment that I realized that Oliver was not simply lost in thought but that there was something or someone behind me that hadn’t stopped distracting him during the time we had been sitting there.

I turned to take a look, and I saw him—a man in his forties, sitting at the bar, alone, like all the others. He didn't seem to be very tall, but he was corpulent. He had a buzz cut and sported a ridiculous goatee. He wore the sleeves of his military-style jacket rolled up, exposing tattoos that barely showed the skin of his arms. He didn't bother to pretend that he wasn't staring at us while drinking from his beer bottle.

"Fuck…" I mumbled.

"Ignore him."

"We're just talking; we're not doing anything."

"Elio, ignore him."

My heart began to beat as though it was reproducing the mad rolls of a drum. I felt a mixture of alarm and rage in addition to the adrenaline induced by the alcohol that was already taking over my senses.

I looked at him again; he was still there, with his eyes on our table, and with that attitude of dismissive superiority and the arrogance of those who know they have the upper hand. It wasn’t worth a confrontation, and yet I could feel the words forming in my dry throat. Oliver put his hand on mine. His eyes desperately begged me to let it be, but it was his thumb, subtly stroking my knuckles, that managed to appease me despite the blood boiling in my veins.

I drank what was left of my beer and got up.

"Elio—"

"I need to pee."

The bathroom was what you'd expect: small, dark and smelly. I stood at one of the two urinals, hoping not to slip on the sticky floor. I had the same feeling as when I drank caffeine on an empty stomach, a cardiac euphoria that my body was unable to manage—too many emotions for one day. How long had we been here? Half an hour? Forty minutes? It definitely seemed like an entire life. At least, the life that had passed since we had said goodbye at Clusone station. I didn't regret what I’d said because I had wanted to do it for a long time, and still I wished I hadn't opened my mouth.

I had always been too impulsive and emotional. Why couldn't I settle for what Oliver had proposed the day before? We could be friends, the kind that write, call and tell each other their secrets with confidence because they know they have an ally in the other. Why did I have this almost unrestrained need to keep hitting where it hurt most? It was time to get over it, Elio!

The bathroom door opened abruptly, and Ridiculous Goatee placed himself at the urinal next to me. I tried to remain as undaunted as a statue, focused on what I had in hand, despite being tempted to flee immediately. I had read once that if you ran into a bear in the woods the right thing to do was to retreat quietly and without sudden movements. I had never seen myself in a situation to put that into practice, obviously, but neither did I find too many differences between the unpredictable attitude of a wild animal and what could be expected from Ridiculous Goatee’s kind.

But the man didn't say anything. Yet his shamelessly arrogant behavior had managed to poison the air to the point of making it almost unbreathable.

We remained glued shoulder-to-shoulder until my bladder stopped expelling that huge amount of beer. I flushed and went to the sink. I could see Ridiculous Goatee's back in the mirror. He didn't turn around; he was completely still, as though he was doing nothing. In fact, I suspected that he was doing nothing at all, which only increased my nervousness.

Just a moment later, I heard him zip up his pants like someone drawing a saber. I tried to hurry, looking for something to dry my hands with, but Oliver entered the bathroom, opening the door with such force that the hinges cried in dismay. He stood there with the same authority as a father who sneaks into his children's room to make sure they are doing their homework and not playing dirty tricks. It was unbelievable to think this was the same man who had shown himself so sorrowful only minutes before. He seemed taller and broader.

It all happened in a few seconds that seemed hours. Oliver's adamant gaze danced between Ridiculous Goatee and myself, whereas Ridiculous Goatee struggled between the door guarded by Oliver and the sink where I was. Finally, Ridiculous Goatee, sniffling hard as though he just smelled something unpleasant, left us alone, not without slamming the door on his way out.

I remembered how to breathe again.

Oliver watched me carefully, and I knew that he was telling me more than I could comprehend.

"Are you all right?"

I was, nothing really had happened. Where did all my distress come from then? Did I fear that Oliver would use this to tell me: See, Elio, this is the reason why things can't be the way you want them to be.

Yet I couldn't help but be moved by the way he stepped forward, seeing the worry on his face.

"I'm fine," I said. "Let's get out of here."

Oliver agreed and led the way, but stopped short when he realized I hadn't moved. When he turned around, I approached him and extended an arm.

" _Tregua?_ "

At first he looked confused, but instantly his lips widened into a shy but familiar smile. We didn’t seal the momentary peace as one might expect; instead, Oliver wrapped his left hand around my fingers and offered me a gentle squeeze before leaving.

 

 

We ran through the rain that was still falling hard. I was ahead, showing the way while Oliver hurried behind me, cursing and claiming that he was getting too old for these things. There was a lot of laughter despite the glaze, despite us running, despite Ridiculous Goatee and, especially, despite the tense conversation we’d had. By the time we reached Marie's Crisis Café’s flashy red door, we had forgotten everything.

We shook the water out of our hair and clothes as best as we could and went inside, where the usual pleasant atmosphere awaited us. Those not seated at the bar, chatting and ordering drinks, occupied the tables under the dim and cozy light of the colorful garlands that covered the whole ceiling. There played no musicians on the tiny stage at the back today, but there was the typical group of people around the piano in the middle of the room, which was surrounded by a wooden counter that everyone used to put their drinks on and leave their donations in the glass jar in one of the corners.

Oliver pointed at it with a smile as he leaned against the bar.

"Your piano?"

"Well, this one isn't that old or dusty, but it might do the trick."

"Have you ever played it?"

"Maybe…" I said, unusually shy. "But normally it's Deborah's throne; it's a pity she isn’t here today. She's about sixty, a musician and actress that wasn’t allowed to succeed because she was considered a threat for many—too ahead of her time, apparently. Yet, she's the liveliest woman I've ever met. Always dressed in colorful clothes and her orange hair tied up in impossible buns. She jokes that she has a nest of swallows hidden in there. You'd love her. She's like a musical encyclopedia, no matter what song you ask for, she plays it."

Playing the piano that afternoon was a girl I didn't remember seeing before. The melody she’d chosen was sweet and the chords seemed to awaken a dormant tranquility in the people who engaged in their conversations with discretion, as though they were afraid to break the magic.

"Freedom, Equality, Fraternity," Oliver said, translating the copper and silver engraving behind the bar.

"Are you learning French now?"

"What would it say about me if I didn't know what that means?"

I smiled. "Do you want to know the story? It’s said that it was a gift from Lafayette himself to the owners of the building in 1820."

Oliver examined the big mirror again in which, in addition to the famous motto, there were engraved two illustrations of the French revolution.

"Is that true?" he asked.

"Who knows, many things are said about this place."

"Vivaldi!" One of the bartenders exclaimed as he approached us: Jamie, a guy around Oliver's age, tall and very thin, and always dressed in the most extravagant shirts you could imagine. "How's my favorite Italian boy?"

"I can't complain."

"I see…" he said, gazing at Oliver with unconcealed curiosity. "Where's Frenchie?"

"If I had to bet, he’s probably arguing with Mr. Freeman."

"Oh, these Frenchmen, always so passionate." Jamie winked at Oliver, as though they were sharing an intimate joke. "What can I get you, Vivi?"

I looked at Oliver and he shook his head. "Your turn, your rules."

It was fair, but I didn't feel like choosing, so I asked Jamie to surprise us.

"Vivaldi, huh?" Oliver joked, once we sat at one of the tables with our drinks.

"I think it's the only thing he knows about Italian classical music, and he's quite proud of it. But he mixes some amazing cocktails. Seriously, try it."

Oliver gave his approval to the intense pink drink—it was good, although a bit too strong, he added later, when the alcohol began to win the battle against the fruity flavors.

"I'm not going to ask you if you come here often; you have a nickname and all, and from what I see you're not the only one," he said.

Was he trying to bring Fabi into the conversation? I played dumb, just in case.

"I don't know anyone who doesn't like coming here; this bar was a refuge for many people for quite some time," I said pointing to the mirror behind the bar again, where I was more than sure Oliver had seen the flag hanging. "Everyone is welcome here, though, the only condition is: no dramas, just fun."

Oliver nodded, satisfied, and lifted his glass inviting me to an impromptu toast.

"No dramas."

The people around us erupted into applause then, while others showed some devastation seeing the girl that had been playing, getting up as she announced, with some regret, that she had to leave. Immediately someone yelled, with comical, desperate consternation, if there was a pianist in the room. People burst out laughing and Oliver looked at me. I shook my head despite the frank smile that had settled on my lips for some time now.

"Come on, Elio... I don't want to leave without hearing you play."

His fake pout was adorable, but it was Jamie who attracted all the attention by shouting at the top of his lungs "Vivaldi!" The regulars followed suit, and Oliver didn’t hesitate to join them. It was a strange feeling of excitement and embarrassment. But I ended up approaching the piano, accompanied by some flamboyant cheers. When I sat down, mimicking the way professional pianists greeted their audience, I saw that Oliver had also moved from his seat, looking for a strategic spot at the bar.

I drank a long swallow to warm up (although I didn't really need to) and started playing the notes of a prominent lullaby. I knew it wasn't what they expected, and the funny cries of protest immediately followed. I raised my arms in the air, like a prisoner begging for mercy before the crowd. A tough audience this afternoon, I said, and then I pretended to meditate what to play next, although I had a very clear idea of what they really needed. I smiled broadly at the palpable enthusiasm as I put my fingers back on the keys and played the first chords of Queen's _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Freddie Mercury's death was still recent and painful, but if there was a song capable of exciting the masses it was this one. In an instant the whole bar gathered around the piano, singing. Oliver hadn’t moved but I could see him behind the heads and arms waving fervently. His eyes were on me as he smiled like I hadn’t seen him do in a long time. He even sang the lyrics when the song became impossibly epic under the enchanting enjoyment of the others.

After that song there were more, some my own choices and many other requested from a completely devoted crowd, which made the party become chaotic as the drinks kept flowing. Every time I looked at the counter my glass was full again. It was a non-stop series of song, drink, applause, drink, song, no, not that one, I don't like it; laughter, drink, song, more applause.

At some point, Oliver had joined the group around the piano. His hair, now dry, was completely disheveled and he had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. He looked casual and young, reminding me so much of that extroverted man who had shown up in Italy that I felt overwhelmed.

After an indefinable number of songs and drinks, I had to excuse myself to all the new and old friends. I shook some hands; there were also hugs and a few suggestions for the next time. Waiting for me at the bar was Oliver, who had laid off the cocktails and now drank a bottle of beer. His smile was almost as hypnotic as the flush that made his face look alive. I would have done everything in my power to see this cheerful vision of him a bit longer, but I had the feeling that the floor was about to open under my feet.

"I don't feel very well," I whispered.

Oliver laughed, shaking his head, then placed a hand on my cheek. "Go outside, I'll pay for the drinks."

"No, no, no… I'll pay, it's my turn."

"I don't think anyone knows who has to pay for what. Let me take care of this, go outside, I'll be right back."

I wasn't in a position to refute him; I felt as though my stomach was doing some crazy pirouettes. I took my jacket and my backpack and stumbled out of the bar. It was already dark and although it wasn’t raining anymore, the fresh, residual wind from the storm chilled me to my bones. I felt dizzy, but I wasn’t convinced that it was entirely the cocktails’ fault. I ended up squatting near the door, pressing my forehead against the wall, trying to catch my breath and to calm down.

I didn't hear him come out, but I didn't startle when I noticed that hand going up my back—it was such a familiar caress.

"You okay?" he asked, crouching beside me.

"Yeah… I just needed some air."

"Are you going to throw up?" He seemed to find the situation very funny.

I denied, shaking my head.

Everything that happened next was difficult to detail. Some moments later, Oliver helped me to my feet and we walked a long way (or at least that's what it looked like to me) before being pushed hard. I heard the screeching of brakes, but it hadn't been a car—a motorcycle maybe? Oliver hugged me and pulled me away from whatever the threat was while I shouted " _Vaffanculo!_ " There were some angry voices, although I could only identify Oliver's, telling whoever was there that everything was fine, that I was just _“a bit drunk.”_ The next thing I remember was being in a car, probably a taxi because Oliver was giving some directions. The conversation that followed escaped me, except for a _"Just make sure he doesn't throw up"_ from a hoarse voice that clearly wasn't Oliver's. Then I think I fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Leaning on the railing, with my chin buried in my arms, I took a deep breath and let the cold breeze blowing from the East River wake me up. Somewhere, not far away, a clock had announced nine o'clock not so long ago. It hadn’t been a bad day after all—it had definitely surpassed the ominous expectations I’d had in the morning. I wasn't quite sure why Oliver had decided to come here, though, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been disappointed to find that our stop wasn't in front of his hotel. I suppose it was better this way, anyhow; I wasn't in a position to do much more than drool on a pillow, and I was certain that no one would want to see something like that. At least the tranquility of the esplanade, almost deserted at this time, and the fresh and pure smell that the current of water carried, had managed to help me recover a little. On the other side of the river, the beautiful view of the flashing lights that outlined Brooklyn was not too bad either.

I turned when I heard the rustle of clothing and watched Oliver's tall silhouette approaching under the dim light of the lampposts.

"I've brought you pizza and fruit juice," he said. "You need to fill your stomach with something solid, and the juice will do you good."

With a piece of newspaper, Oliver dried one of the benches, almost hidden under the shade cast by the trees, and sat down.

"I'm not hungry," I grumbled plaintively.

"Stop behaving like a baby and come here."

"I won't eat that thing you all insist on calling _pizza_."

I could hardly see his eyes, but I had no doubt that Oliver was looking at me with all the indolence that could be gathered in one glance.

"Come here," he ordered in a deep, firm voice, pointing to the spot next to him.

I obeyed because there were two things that I had always liked about Oliver: an ability to be patient and attentive that contrasted diametrically with the imperative attitude that he showed from time to time and that back in the day had managed to make me hard instantly.

First he encouraged me to try the pizza. I didn't lie when I said I wasn't hungry; in fact, the smell was unpleasant to me, but my stomach roared gratefully at the first bite of that giant, sticky and so New York slice.

"That's it, very good. Now drink the juice," he said, waving the cardboard box right under my nose.

"Will you stop acting like my dad?"

"I doubt very much that I'm acting like your dad. In fact, I'm sure he’d let you get drunk until you lost consciousness so you could learn the lesson by yourself. I'm sorry to tell you that I lack that serenity."

"You wouldn't be the first to question the way they’ve raised me, you know?"

"I'm not questioning it at all; the result speaks for itself." Oliver folded his pizza slice and took a big bite. "Although, I agree that the method wouldn't work with everyone; they've been lucky."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"I am. You're a family worthy of admiration and envy."

"And my dad would tell you that envy is only a consequence of insecurity. He is totally right, and I know what I'm talking about; I'm an expert in that field."

Oliver chuckled but didn't lose a shred of authority. "Drink the juice."

"I'm not that wasted."

"You told the taxi driver I was going to kill you and throw your dismembered body into the river."

I had to laugh, not because I remembered such a thing but because I saw myself perfectly capable of saying something like that in a drunken state.

"It's not funny," replied Oliver as I drank the juice, for once, without a word of complaint.

The sweet liquid left a strange hodgepodge of flavors on my palate, but it certainly helped my stomach to stop behaving as though it were on a carousel operated by a mad man.

"I think it is," I objected. "Moreover, you should know it was something that crossed my mind yesterday."

Oliver turned, chewing slowly, looking at me as though he was really trying to find out how much sarcasm and sincerity there was in my words.

"You're not joking," he concluded.

I finished the pizza sooner than I'd intended—I needed something to clean up (and distract myself) but my hands were so greasy that I didn't dare to touch anything. Oliver handed me a paper napkin with a confident gesture that had nothing to do with the expression on his face; it was as though his body and mind were playing in two completely different leagues.

"I don't know, what was I supposed to think?" I said, nonchalant, rubbing the paper carefully between my fingers; an attempt to make light of the situation, in spite of knowing that Oliver was too smart not to perceive the uneasiness that over the last hours had cost me more and more to hide.

"Definitely not that I’d want to hurt you."

"Forget about that, I was just being overly dramatic; old habits, you know? And if it's any consolation, of all the alternatives, that wasn't the first one I considered."

"And knowing you, I'm convinced that the first of the alternatives didn't include museums or bookstores, right?"

I shrugged, not to play coy but to gain some time while meditating if it was worthwhile to give the deathblow, or whether it was better to continue pretending that there was nothing exceptional about this meeting and that, indeed, we were only two friends happy to see each other after a long time.

"Is that how low you think of me?" he asked.

"What do I know, Oliver… I told you once, remember? I know _nothing_. And with you, I'm never sure of what you want or what you think."

"So in your head the most likely possibility was that I was calling you, looking for a quick, easy fuck, is that it?"

I didn't want to shrug my shoulders again because it wasn't convenient to give the impression that, deep down, all this stuff we were discussing was nothing but trifle, especially when Oliver sounded genuinely offended. But I did it anyway.

"Is it so implausible?" I asked, not letting myself be carried away by empathy. "You call me suddenly, at six in the morning, after nine years of silence. You wouldn't be the first to get in touch with me for something like that, Oliver: meaningless, casual sex. It's all right, isn't it what it was for you, after all? A simple summer affair?"

"No… it wasn’t."

Just when I was starting to get emboldened, picking up momentum like someone trying to overtake somebody standing in their way, Oliver managed to disarm me completely. But just as it had happened in the museum, it had nothing to do with what he’d said but with how he’d said it. The bitterness expressed in those few words and his slumped body showed a man I had glimpsed briefly during the afternoon, but that now openly exposed himself, as though he had ripped off the mask behind which he seemed to want to protect his real persona from everyone.

I felt sorry for him, maybe more than he deserved. I also felt the need to tell him that he didn't have to protect himself from me, but complacent speeches always end up becoming cloudy when there was still so much to be said.

"Then I don't understand, Oliver…" My voice no more than a whisper. "I waited for you for weeks, months."

Oliver exhaled loudly, a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "I know… but I'm afraid that none of the explanations I can give you will make you feel better."

"I don't want you to make me feel better, I want you to tell me _why_ now—and please don't give me that shit about being friends."

"I don't know what you want me to say then."

"I need you to help me understand if there's anything left here between us…"

Oliver was silent for a moment, long enough for me to feel my heart break into pieces. It was like watching the heavy curtain of a theater fall and discovering that all the scenery that had kept me in suspense and immersed in a world of colorful fantasy, was nothing more than cheap cardboard cutouts.

"It's been a long time, Elio."

This was even worse than I’d expected. If he had at least answered "yes" or "no" I would have obtained a clear sentence with which to form the final verdict. But what the hell did "It's been a long time, Elio" mean? _It's been a long time, Elio, and I haven’t forgotten it. It's been a long time, Elio, and I can hardly remember what that first kiss was like; please, understand it._ How could it be possible that I remembered it as though it had happened only yesterday?

"The answer is obvious, then, isn't it?" I said notwithstanding the ambiguity because even if it hurt like one of those splinters that sink into the skin and that you can't see but feel with every movement, the most likely thing was that the years would have disfigured the memory into a succession of monochromatic images with no beauty or meaning.

Oliver seemed to ponder, but I had no more patience reserved for another vague answer. I was right at the edge of the cliff and I didn't care anymore. It was this or nothing, and I wasn't going to wait for him to throw me into that abyss I had avoided for so long. If I had to fall, at least I'd be the one jumping in. So, with my eyes somewhere else because I didn't dare look at him, I placed a hand on his thigh, very close to that part of his body that I’d learned to explore without the modesty of a stranger. His muscles tensed, but Oliver sat as still as the marble figures that decorate tombs. Perhaps this was our funeral: Oliver and Elio, Elio and Oliver. We were only part of a dead memory. But Oliver said nothing. So I moved my hand cautiously, as though to warn him of what I was eager to do if he didn’t prevent it.

His breathing became troubled.

"Don't do this to me, Elio." His voice sounded so weak that it was impossible to tell if he was angry, horrified or simply bewildered.

"Just tell me to stop."

"Elio—"

"Just tell me to stop," I insisted, full of despair.

There was a second of silence—a hopeful second, capable of awakening expectations that might only last the ephemeral instant that subsists within a blink.

"Stop."

Cutting and direct. There was the answer I’d asked for.

I withdrew my hand immediately.

I had needed to know for so long… to know if all the overflowing affection I had felt for him was reciprocated or not. If he had felt the same as me when we said goodbye after spending hours making love, studying and memorizing every corner of our bodies to leave nothing to the imagination and so, when we thought about the other, the image in our heads was exactly the same one we had been able to touch. I needed to know if Oliver had left with the same sense of abandonment I had stayed with while listening to the last rattle of the train I had already lost sight of.

Just because it had been expected it hadn't ceased to be a bitter end.

However, once the shock of absence had passed and the memories—the good ones—claimed their well-deserved place in my mind, a small ray of hope had lit up in me because if Oliver longed for those moments as much as I did, it was impossible that there couldn't exist a second chance for us.

We all waited for him during Hanukkah—at least I had, it was tradition. I knew that my father talked to him sometimes, but at that moment I hadn’t wanted him to tell me anything. I was invaded by the innocence that bewitches you with the same enthusiasm of a child on its birthday. My father had dropped here and there that Oliver seemed to be quite busy and might not come. I pretended not to listen to him; I thought he only told me that to make me fall into the trap of surprise. Did he think I was so gullible as not to notice? But I had preferred to go on without knowing because I couldn't stop imagining arriving one day, opening the door and finding him there, without a warning, by the fireplace, drinking a glass of cognac accompanied by my dad, and sharing a joke with my mom as Mafalda offered him some _sufganiyot_. I had felt as though I was living on one of those stupid clouds so often mentioned in romantic novels.

In the end, there had been no cognac by the warmth of the fireplace, but there was a phone call that brought me back to reality in the same way that a slamming door wakes you up in the middle of a pleasant dream. My world had collapsed piece by piece, like a house of cards that you have spent hours building with great care, but that’s so fragile to crumble with one blow.

This is how I felt now—the discouragement of those who’d dared to hope, even though they knew the probability that they might lose. But how painful defeat still felt.

I tried to keep the calm expected of a man who is closer to thirty than to those tender seventeen, acting as though what I had offered Oliver had been nothing more than a cigarette that he had rejected with a stoic wave of his hand. Such a thing can offend no one, right? The truth was that I wouldn't have minded a cigarette at the moment, but I didn't have the courage to ask him, and my heart was pounding so hard that I was having trouble breathing.

What was going to happen now? How were we going to say goodbye after this? Perhaps it would be best to wait for Oliver to get up and go. But what if he was waiting for me to do the same thing: to get away from here, head down, and never speak to him again?

I was so overwhelmed by humiliation that I felt a huge need to cry. I tried to resist it but I couldn’t contain myself when I heard him whisper my name. Oliver tried to touch me but I dodged him and approached the railing. The Brooklyn lights were nothing more than a blurred vision that accentuated my sense of delusion. This had to be a nightmare. I was sure that I would wake up again at Fabi's apartment, curled up next to him and laugh at my stupid imagination.

"Elio…"

"I’m fine."

Oliver sighed loudly. I heard him move, but he stood still when I turned to face him.

"I'm sorry about all this," I said, wiping my tears away.

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. Do you know how pathetic it feels to realize that, despite everything I've done to convince myself otherwise, I'm still not over you, Oliver?"

It was almost impossible not to feel some initial reluctance, but I found myself unable to fight him, so I let Oliver wrap me in his arms. And I cried. I cried like a little boy who thinks he's lost and past saving. I cried because this was the only way I could let out all the feelings that for so long had been trapped within me like a disease. I cried because of shame and sorrow, his and mine, because there was no way to fix this and he must know it. And I cried for the trenchcoat I was probably ruining with all these tears that expressed so much and nothing at all. What was the point? But I cried, and Oliver didn't let me go until I calmed down. Then he cupped my face with both hands and with his thumbs tried to erase the wet streaks that had formed on my cheeks.

"Me neither, Elio, me neither."

At first I didn't know what he meant, but there was a part of me that understood him perfectly. I wanted to shake my head, but Oliver held me tight.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he repeated. "This is what I feared the most, Elio, having messed you up. Remember when I told you that for you it was nothing but fun and games? Egoistically, I was afraid that that would be the case, but now I wish it had been. I hoped that over the years I would’ve been just one of many for you."

"But you weren't. I wanted to be with you."

"It couldn't be, Elio, you know it couldn't be. And it's not just because—" He breathed with frustration. "I wish I was, but… I'm not as brave as you are, and I had a life here, you had a life there, and you were still too young. You had a lot to see and to discover; you still have."

"I've seen enough."

Oliver pressed his forehead against mine.

"Do you hate me for this?" I asked.

"No, never—fuck, Elio, I miss you more than it's wise to admit."

"Well, I'm here…"

He was about to protest but I wouldn't let him talk.

"Only tonight, Oliver, I'm not asking you for anything else. Then I'll go away. I'll never ask my dad about you ever again. I'll pretend you don't exist. But give me this night. I won't tell anyone, no one has to know." I sounded as desperate as a nearly drowned man finally coming to the surface for a lungful of air, but I no longer cared.

Oliver groaned against my hair, as though he had taken the demeanor of someone surrendering to impulse. I felt guilty for having forced him out of his comfort zone but it had to be done. I had confessed something that had cost me a lot to accept, and like that day at the memorial dedicated to those perished in the Battle of the Piave, I had taken a risky initiative whose two possible consequences terrified me. Nerves made my battered stomach churn, but I was as ready to give myself to him, like nine years ago, as I was to accept that it was time to let him go.

When his eyes rested on mine, I felt like I was seeing a different Oliver, but I didn't want to guess and make a mistake as I had done so many times before. I didn't even dare to move when he took a step back, dropping his arms on both sides of his hips; nor did I dare to blink, in case he took advantage of that to disappear like an illusionist in a magic trick. Oliver approached the bench, took our things, including my backpack and, without actually saying anything, asked me to follow him.

 

 

In the taxi the tension became almost a physical being that, if I tried hard enough, I was sure I’d be able to see. We barely looked at each other, keeping a formal distance, while the taxi driver, a kind, middle-aged man, asked questions that Oliver answered sincere but with barely nominal kindness. I found myself unable to pay attention to the conversation they were having, only Oliver's voice managed to keep me grounded.

I couldn't believe this was happening. I was as nervous as a virginal damsel and it was embarrassing—I knew I wouldn't feel this way about anyone else. This is what you do to me, Oliver. This is the devastating effect you have on me. I, who this morning approached your hotel to show you that there was nothing left of the introverted Elio you met in Italy, but now was returning with the uncertainty of a lamb on its way to the slaughter. It had nothing to do with sex; what was going to happen tonight was going to be a milestone in our lives and Fabi's words resonated in my head as never before because, deep down, what I refused most to accept was that, whatever happened in his hotel room, tomorrow everything would continue as usual, even if we had changed forever.

There were no words in the elevator, nor in the narrow, long corridor. Inside the room, everything was dark. I stayed with my back glued to the door, following Oliver's dark figure with my gaze until he lit a small lamp on a desk. It was a mess, covered with papers and some books—just like the desk in B. that he had used as his own. Some things, at least, hadn't changed.

I smiled quietly, without moving, as Oliver opened the mini-bar fridge, closing it again only a few seconds later. I could use a cigarette as well, I thought, when Oliver took out the package, but threw it on the desk with an exasperated sigh—it was empty, and he was nervous, _very_ nervous. It was like the first night we spent together, only on that occasion the mixture of excitement and anxiety had prevented me from seeing it. I felt an unstoppable urge to embrace him and tell him that everything would be fine, as is often done in fiction. But this was real.

"Do you want me to go?" I asked carefully. "I will if you say so."

Oliver took off his trenchcoat and threw it on the bed that I could barely see from the door.

"Come here," he said, softly.

That was answer enough.

I approached him, stopping close but without making any contact. Oliver stared at me, I hoped not to look for some sort of reluctance on my part, like the doubts I had that night so long ago. I wasn't here to act like this was new to me, when it wasn't even the first time between us. I just wanted him to talk to me, and touch me. We may behave like strangers, Oliver, but there was a time when we were able to be one person. But it was not worth to rush things. I wanted to savor this moment as though it was the last because I doubted that something like this would happen again in the future.

I waited. I waited for him because if I had been able to wait for years, I would be able to wait now that I finally had him in front of me without the fear of seeing him vanish like a mirage. I didn't even move when Oliver placed his hands on my shoulders and with his fingers delicately tucked under the straps of the backpack, he slid them down my arms until he took it off. I didn’t take my eyes off of him, concentrating on that brief contact while trying to maintain calm. My heart was pounding in such a way that I could hear it drumming in my ears. We were finally here; this was no longer part of one of those dreams I had fantasized so much about.

I hugged him, putting my hands under his sweater, welcoming the warmth of his skin. Oliver shuddered, surprised.

"Sorry, my hands are cold."

I heard him laugh.

"It's okay," he said, wrapping his arms around me as well, pressing his lips against my hair. His burning breath made me tremble.

We let ourselves be carried away by this moment of unrestricted contact and recognition. His hands moving all over my back while mine explored his muscles, as though I needed to make sure everything was still in place. Cuddles joined by the rubbing of our faces as we inhaled the scent of the other. I didn't mind the roughness of his beard burning my skin—we were like two animals that sniff each other to make sure there’s no enemy around. But Oliver was still Oliver; I knew it more than ever when his lips risked caressing mine.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," he murmured, as I indulged kissing his nose, cheek, jaw; I even sucked on his earlobe. I needed to taste every part of him. I craved to feel every part of him.

I pressed myself against his body because I also wanted him to be aware of how much I desired him.

"Kiss me," he said, between breaths.

On our first night he’d asked my permission; today he was asking me to take the lead and I accepted without a second thought. I captured his mouth with the same eagerness with which the dry earth absorbs water, and for an instant we were back in Italy, in my room, feeling the warmth of the night after a day of intense heat while the cicadas chanted a soundtrack of a dream that was no longer utopia.

"I need you to fuck me," I whispered against his mouth.

"Wait, wait…" he replied, laughing, and placing a hand over my lips. "Slow down, we're not in a hurry."

I opened my mouth enthusiastically, taking him in and sucking on his soft fingers.

"I want you," I murmured.

I was behaving like a hungry savage. Oliver held my face firmly with both hands, and when he made sure he had me under control, he leaned in and kissed me gently, over and over again; warm, soft lips against mine. Desperately grateful, I opened my mouth for him. He tasted sweet and familiar. I let him do as he pleased while he took off my jacket and I took off his sweater. Oliver was wearing nothing else under it; I had already noticed that, so I delighted myself with the sight of his bare torso. He had more hair on his chest than I remembered, and I couldn't resist the temptation to rub it with my fingers. I was dying to kiss it. But Oliver claimed my mouth again, this time leaving all subtlety aside. His hard cock pressed impatiently against my lower belly. I let an idle hand slip between us and touched him through his pants. Oliver moaned, breaking the kiss, and I took that moment to lead him to the bed. He fell, sitting down on the mattress as I stood between his thighs, inciting him to take off my sweater. He didn't object, though he did nothing to help me when it got stuck under my chin. We both laughed at the lack of eroticism but that didn't stop him to leave a trail of kisses all over my stomach while I struggled to get rid of the cotton trap.

Oliver was grinning when I finally reemerged after that moment of stimulating blindness. I reproached him for his lack of cooperation and we fought playfully on the bed until I managed to straddle his hips, kissing him passionately. It was lovely to feel his hands touching me with nothing in between, no apprehensions, no infinite oceans. We were just ourselves again while everything else around us became abstract—nothing existed but us.

I had fantasized about this moment many times, but whatever it had been that I had planned in my head, nothing could equal this: having Oliver here, wanting this as much as I did.

I let my mouth focus on everything else Oliver was offering me because, even if I didn't want it to ever end, I knew I’d only have this one chance. I tried to memorize the blush that lit his cheeks when he closed his eyes and let himself go while I explored every bit of exposed skin. I wanted to remember it for the rest of my life and draw on his body a map of kisses that I hoped he’d never forget either because, as I had told him at the esplanade, I was willing to accept whatever he could give me tonight and then let him go. I wouldn't bother him again; I'd keep the memory and the knowledge that at least he hadn't forgotten the love we had both shared that summer.

But there would be time for that. Now, Oliver was here. All mine. It was great to be able to hold onto this momentary detachment and enjoy watching his reactions. I grinned with satisfaction when he bit his lip and moaned deep in his throat, a steadily rising note in time with the movement of my hand, caressing his cock still through his pants. I was taking my time, relaxing more and more with every gesture, sound and smell—Oliver smelt good despite having spent the whole day out. He always did, of course, and tasted even better. It felt so intimate. There was no plan, no protocol, or words that no longer meant anything.

I began to unbuckle his belt. Oliver leaned up on his elbows and looked at me attentively. I liked it that no detail of everything I did and intended to do to him would be lost.

"Wait," he said suddenly.

"What—do you want me to stop?"

Oliver sat up, grabbed my hips and laid me on the comforter. I didn't like the touch of the satin, but I wasn't going to complain as long as Oliver's body moved over mine, which responded by contouring and adapting to his when he checked how painfully hard I was.

Don't look at me like this, Oliver, don't look at me like I'm the most beautiful person in the world because I'll believe it and I don't deserve it. Kiss me so I can't think. Kiss me so I know that at least that's okay, even if everything else is wrong. Kiss me today so I can remember you tomorrow.

When his lips finally met mine, I groaned so loudly that I thought I would come right there, with my jeans still on, and I wouldn't even be ashamed of it. I saw myself even saying: See, Oliver? This is how much I've missed you. And although in this dreamy state touching no longer proved anything about reality, I slowly lowered my hands down his back. He didn’t flinch, not even when my fingertips slipped into his pants and I slid a finger between his buttocks. Oliver simply waited, breathing fast while lightly biting my neck.

It was perfect and now that Oliver couldn't see me, I allowed myself to smile and feel everything without reservations.

This could be the beginning of something.

But Oliver pulled away from me before I could get used to our unstoppable but complacent rhythm, whispering to me between kisses to give him a second before he got up quickly and went into the bathroom. I shivered, already yearning for his warmth, but nothing could erase the stupid grin on my face. I felt like in those brief moments of tense calm that you find right at the top of the roller coaster; an ecstasy halfway between fear and pleasure.

I unbuttoned my pants, although I didn't take them off. I wanted Oliver to do it. But I reached into my underwear and stroked myself slowly as I tried to hear what Oliver was doing on the other side of the wall separating us.

After a moment I sat on the bed. I realized that at some point during our fight we had kicked away his trenchcoat that was now on the floor, and so was his wallet. I took it without even thinking. I had heard Mafalda say many times that leaving purses on the floor brought bad luck, or in her words: _Equivale a buttare via i soldi_. What was not so clear is what drove me to open it.

I wish I hadn't.

Nothing could have prepared me to see those three pairs of eyes looking at me with candor, as though I were that trustworthy person who hides behind the camera, giving instructions for them to look their best. For a long time, I had tried to imagine what Oliver's family would look like, but they were no more than hazy figures in my head. I knew they were there and were part of his daily life, but they lacked faces that would make them real people of flesh and blood. Now they were, and the acceptance of this fact hurt more than I had anticipated. Not because of them but because of me, because I realized the place I really held in this constellation. I was the _other one_ Fabi had talked about; the man who would never be part of the whole that they represented, and who had to settle for sporadic and furtive meetings in a discreet hotel.

I noticed the acid taste of bile coating my tongue and palate, and yet I couldn't take my eyes off the photo, perhaps in search of something that would indicate that Oliver was not happy with his life, as though that were of any consolation. But there was nothing.

Charlotte wasn't what would ordinarily be defined as a hot woman, but she was pretty, with a beaming smile that sweetened an oval face framed by long chestnut hair. Her eyes, a grayish-blue, resembled Sean's. The boy was about four years old when the snapshot had been taken and was in his mother's arms. He was as blond as Oliver and laughed openly because his fond father was tickling his belly. They looked like a lovely family.

I didn't move when the bathroom door opened, nor did I look at him when Oliver stopped short in the middle of the room. I didn't dare to.

"She's beautiful," I said. "They both are."

There was a moment of hesitation before Oliver stepped forward, and immediately snatched the wallet from my hands and left it on the desk—his back turned to me.

"I’m really sorry, it was on the floor. I didn't mean to pry." I justified myself, mortified by the idea of him getting mad at me for being a stupidly nosy boy.

How I wished I could go back to ten minutes ago, to his body against mine, and his tongue in my mouth, anticipating all the things I wanted to do to him and for him to do to me. This time I’d been prepared for everything and whatever was happening beyond these four walls had been irrelevant to me.

Oliver sat in the chair, arms on the desk, and his face in his hands. I stood there, watching as all the magic we had created dissipated completely. Then something happened that I would never have seen coming: Oliver began to cry. I was so taken aback that it took me a minute or two before I gathered the strength to get up and hug him. I’d have expected him to tell me to leave him alone and go away—he didn’t. It broke my heart to see him like this. Oliver, my Oliver, _la muvi star_ , _il cauboi_ … but I let him cry as he had let me do; let him vent all the bitterness that seemed to be consuming him.

"She doesn't deserve this, Elio," he said, in tears, after a while. "I'm a bad person, but she is not. She doesn't deserve this, neither does Sean… nor you."

I held him tighter and kissed the back of his neck.

"Don't worry about me," I said. "I told you, I'm soiled beyond redemption."

Oliver turned to look at me, his eyes swollen and his cheeks and nose tip rosy. I had trouble finding similarities with the arrogant Oliver who said goodbye to people with a brusque _Later!_ as though he was above everything and everyone.

"I'm sorry I put you in this situation," I said.

"What are you saying?"

"I asked you for this."

"And I'd give you everything if it was up to me, Elio."

Maybe it wasn't appropriate to smile, but his sincerity touched me so much that at this point I was sure I would do anything for him.

"Do you want me to go?" I repeated the question I had asked him when we had arrived. How things had changed in just a few minutes.

Oliver shook his head. "Just hold me."

I did as he asked because he had already given me today more than I had ever expected to receive from him again.


	10. Chapter 10

There’s one distinctive fact about human nature: we are never satisfied with what we have or who we are. As children we want to grow up, as teenagers we are desperate to become men and women, and when we reach adulthood, we yearn for the naivety of childhood again.

From the very first moment I set foot in the room Oliver had made his own during that summer, I knew I wouldn't leave it being the same boy. What I didn't imagine was that it would be his absence that would end up making me the man I was today.

There was a time when I didn't even bother to hide the apathy that was seizing me. If I could’ve stayed locked in my room, lying on the bed until the dust made me disappear completely, I would’ve done it. However, the increasingly evident restlessness of my parents, who had always endeavored to leave me some space to learn how to face problems by myself, reached such an alarming zenith that it pushed me to wake up from an unnatural lethargy and melancholy for a guy who had just turned eighteen.

Fortunately, there were not too many consequences, and eventually I became an ordinary teenager again, with tons of unusual concerns for someone so young, but who interacted with people his age normally. I went back to transcribing music and the books that I loved so much and had put aside. I met with friends to go to the movies, or the most avant-garde cafeterias, or simply to go to the new trendy place in town. I even bragged about the sporadic sex I had with both girls and boys.

I wasn't ashamed of anything.

Marzia was perhaps the most lasting relationship of all, and when it was over, there were no arguments or dramatic scenes—we were just two friends who loved and respected each other, and understood that the best thing was to follow different paths.

Then came New York and Juilliard, and the world expanded before me like a sea without banks. I was fascinated by a cultural and creative scene that differed from anything I’d seen up to that point, thanks to new forms of verbal and aesthetic expression that had an innovative charm and power without limits. I experimented, tried new things, many of them difficult to be proud of, but I did it without hesitation or fear. I was willing to love and reject, to be disappointed and impressed—I felt like a free spirit, able to travel the broad spectrum of human emotions without restrictions, and it was the most incredible feeling.

It was the day I went to the Strand bookstore, and came face to face with his photograph, that I realized how long I hadn’t thought about Oliver. Reality surprised me as when you find something that you have long since stopped looking for because you had already given up on it. However, Oliver's memory was far from lost. Today, I had realized that it had only been asleep, in the same way as the princess in the fairy tale, waiting for that evocative stimulus to bring it back to life.

And now, here we were, lying on an impersonal hotel bed, naked from the waist up and hugging as though this was our last chance to do so. Yes, I had imagined this encounter many times, and I was sure I’d never visualized anything as innocent and platonic as this.

I wasn't complaining. In fact, I felt so relaxed that I struggled not to fall placidly asleep in Oliver's arms as he spoke and serenaded me with the rise and fall of his chest.

This time he didn't shy away from the answer when I asked him about Charlotte. He told me how they met, but not how they got engaged—that was still a delicate subject. Oliver measured his words and the way he expressed himself when talking about her, striving to infuse an image that was difficult to dislike. I was touched by the idea that he seemed to be seeking my approval in some way. Oliver was willing to assume a visceral hatred on my part, but not that I would project my misgivings against his wife and son. I had no reason to. Leaving aside the tensions of two overly conservative and meddlesome families, Charlotte presented herself as a hardworking and attentive woman, devoted to her husband and son. And then there was Sean. Oliver's voice reached a nuance that I’d never heard from him before when he spoke about his son, despite honestly expressing some fears about his role as a father.

"I want to be able to talk to him and for him not to be afraid to talk to me, you know?" he had said.

"You can always opt for tales. My father made up fables when he wanted to express something he was worried about, and couldn't think of any other way to do it. Some of those stories didn't make any sense, though, and I used to ask him so many questions that he ended up going straight to the point."

"Always a tenacious child, huh?" he replied, laughing. "But it's not a bad idea. I’ll think about it."

We talked at long length as we had seldom done. There were no insolent questions, no ironic answers, only sincerity and an unrestrained desire to know what we had missed in recent years. It reminded me of the conversation we’d had at his favorite spot in the villa to which he escaped at night while I stayed in bed imagining him between the legs of all the women in B. and nearby towns. It was the same feeling of fleetness to claim lost time while we prepared ourselves for a farewell already lurking around the corner.

"Tell me about your French friend."

I looked at him, somewhat surprised by the sudden question.

"What?" he said. "You mentioned him, Jamie the bartender mentioned him—your _mother_ went to the careful, and not so subtle, trouble of mentioning him at dinner, too… Fabien, if I remember correctly? He seems like a celebrity."

I smiled at the undeniable audacity of my parents. How was it possible that I underestimated them so much?

"If you told him that, he'd probably laugh in your face."

Oliver remained silent, surely waiting for a much more detailed answer—after all, he’d told me things that I was convinced he didn't talk about too often. But I could say so much about Fabi that I didn't even know where to start.

"The first thing you need to know is that you should never ever call him Fabien or he'll cut your head off."

"I take note."

"He can be very straightforward; sometimes I think he speaks faster than he thinks, which gets him in trouble often… and he hates half of the American population so, you can imagine."

Oliver chuckled. "He sounds like a lovely man."

"He's a very lovely man. Seriously, Fabi is just—he's my best friend."

And there was no better way to describe him than this.

Over time, I had come to firmly believe that friendship was the most perfect form of love. Fabi was a selfless person who acted without expecting anything in return—always there when I needed him most. It was him who I thought of when I felt the urge to share something, whether it was the funniest anecdote in the world or the worst tragedy (or what on my unreliable personal scale could be considered a tragedy). Fabi knew me like no one else, and he was always the first to offer me a hand if needed. There was strong mutual trust. We could be honest with each other without the fear of offense, even if what we heard or said was not to our liking, and then strive to put a smile back onto our faces. I loved him with a kind of affection that couldn’t compare to what I’d felt for other people, and if I had to imagine my life without him right now, I couldn’t.

I felt enormous comfort in realizing this. Understanding that I could love without the obligation to nullify the memory I had of Oliver. I could embrace that incomparable feeling I had experienced at a particular time in my life, and at the same time show myself capable of moving on.

Oliver accepted the answer without adding anything. For a moment, we let ourselves be seduced by the pleasant silence, only disturbed by the distant noise of incessant traffic and the peaceful sound of our breaths.

"Oliver… are you happy?" The question came after a while.

Oliver crooned as though he was lost in thoughts. His eyes were closed, and he looked so calm that I felt bad for having bothered him, even though I knew he wasn’t asleep. When he opened his eyes, his gaze and mind seemed to be elsewhere.

"I’d be lying if I said that there are no things that I’d like to be different," he said. "Sometimes I imagine myself going back in time, making different decisions. I wish I could stop blaming others for my lack of courage, and be proud of who I am—maybe someday I will. I assure you that I think about it more than I should, Elio. But when I go home and see my son running down the hall to meet me… I forget about everything."

"I hope I can meet him someday."

"I'd love that." He looked at me, smiling. "And what about you? Are you happy, Elio?"

"I guess I have no reason to complain, but I know I would’ve been happier if I had allowed myself to be."

Oliver hugged me tightly. I wasn't sure how late it was, but I was sure we didn't have much more time left.

 

 

I was awoken abruptly by the ringing of a phone. Everything was dark, and a terrifying sense of disorientation struck me until I heard Oliver's whispering voice beside me. I fell back onto the pillow and wrapped myself with the blanket that I suspected Oliver had used to cover my still half-naked body at some point during the night.

Oliver lit the little lamp on the nightstand after hanging up. The sudden flash of light had the same effect as a lightning bolt going through my brain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said softly, with evident amusement in his voice, as he tried to pull the blanket away from my face.

"No…" I grunted. "What time is it?"

"It's four in the morning. It was the wake-up call. My flight is in two hours." There was no mirth in his tone anymore. "How do you feel?"

"As if I got hit by a truck."

"You can stay in bed while I pack if you want."

It was tempting, but I didn't feel like lying there if he wasn't going to be with me. I put the blanket aside in time to see him get up and move around the room with the same apathy of a penitent. I had to start moving too, but sitting up felt like jumping onto a train that was already running very fast.

"You look terrible," he said, regaining some of his friendly mischief.

"Thanks…"

Oliver stopped what he was doing, pulled a bottle of water out of the mini-bar and sat down next to me. Something seemed to have changed in him; he looked calmer, more serene. I hadn't noticed the grim expression that had prevailed on his face for much of the day until this very moment that I saw him looking at me with such tenderness.

He placed a hand on my cheek and, with his thumb, drew a line under my eye where I was convinced that the skin had become even darker after another almost sleepless night.

"Elio… I'm so fucking glad to have seen you again—that we could talk."

"It's not like you made it very easy."

"What can I do? I like to play hard to get," he joked.

"And was it worth it?"

"I don't know. Do you think it was worth it?"

I smiled and Oliver responded in the same way.

"At least I hope you don't hate me anymore," he said.

"I tried it once and it didn't work. I don't think I could hate you even if my life depended on it, Oliver."

He leaned in to plant a kiss where his finger had been stroking my skin.

"Maybe we'll see each other one day when things are different," he whispered.

"Maybe."

Oliver nodded with a sigh; there was not much more left to be said. Then he looked at his watch and got up. I followed him because there was no point to keep lazing around. Oliver handed me my sweater and I dressed while he picked up all the papers and books he had on the desk, and neatly folded the clothes he placed in the suitcase with the same precision with which a jigsaw puzzle is completed.

"Don't forget to make room for this," I said, opening my backpack and handing him the copy of Albert Camus' _The Stranger_. Oliver took it with gratitude and laughed out loud when he saw me take out his book. "And… could you please sign this for me? I’m a big fan."

Going along with the joke, and adopting his role as illustrious author, Oliver cleared his throat, took a pen from the desk and formally asked, "Sure, what's the name of this big fan?"

"Elio Perlman."

"Elio? That name isn’t from around here, is it?"

"It's Italian."

"Italian? I love Italy! I've been there a couple of times."

"Really? Where?"

"In Lombardy."

"No way; my family's from there!"

"Aare you kidding me?"

"Absolutely not. Next time you visit we have to meet and have a drink."

"Do you think you'll have enough time to take care of me and your waitress friend?"

I’d already forgotten that poor attempt to shatter his nerves.

"I'm sure I'll manage," I said.

Oliver smiled playfully and wrote with meticulous calligraphy: _To Elio, in the words of Heraclitus: No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man._

Learning from our mistakes is something we all go through with better or worse fortune. But it’s clear that we will never be able to embark on the learning process if we don’t question the meaning of our experiences—challenging questions that invite us to wonder about our own beliefs but that help us to be much more realistic. His words made so much sense that I felt that today a new world had opened up for me, and as far as our relationship was concerned, we had only signed a cordial new paragraph.

I put the book in my backpack as though it was the most valuable treasure and picked up my jacket while mentally preparing myself to say goodbye to him once again. But then Oliver took out of his suitcase the copy of Stendhal’s _Armance_ that I had given him blinded by an eccentric impulse. After spending the last few hours trying to draw a confession from him that would help me understand and explain, as well as ending so many years of indelible affliction, it was this simple gesture that managed to put an end to any remaining doubts that I might still harbor. I would’ve cried right there had it not been for my determination not to lose control for the second time.

"I carry it with me everywhere," he said, with unusual shyness. "I've never been a superstitious person, but I feel it brings me good luck."

He handed me the book, which I opened to read the inscription I had dedicated to him that morning, captivated by a hopeful wish: _Zwischen Immer und Nie, for you in silence, somewhere in Italy in the mid-eighties_.

"I'd like you to write something new."

And without giving me time to process the invitation, Oliver tore the page with a quick movement. I paled, not understanding what he was doing. He folded the sheet of paper cautiously and put it between the pages of the book, thus offering me a new blank page on which to write on. I didn't need to think too much, I held the pen firmly and quoting Cicero I wrote: _I hope that the memory of our friendship will be everlasting. For you, somewhere in New York, after the silence_.

 

 

In the taxi, I felt dazed just thinking about everything that had happened; a compendium of images struggling for order in my head like small, quick flashes that followed the pulse of the city lights slipping into the car. I didn't want to forget a single detail.

"Please, don't wait another nine years to call me, okay?" I had asked him before I’d left.

Oliver had assured me that he wouldn't, but as though he doubted his ability to keep that simple promise, he took some paper and scribbled a telephone number—his home number. I had been on the verge of refusing to accept it, as though he had been asking me to hold a piece of hot iron, but Oliver begged me to keep it.

I watched the paper in my hands, the numbers barely visible in the almost imperturbable dimness of the vehicle, and leaned my head against the window trapped by a bizarre sense of relief and happiness. I would’ve closed my eyes and fallen asleep right there, waiting for the taxi driver to throw me out of the car—and I wouldn’t have been mad about it; I was even sure that I would’ve smiled, thanking him.

But it didn't take much longer than twenty minutes to stop in front of my building. I was pleased to be back, and yet I felt a surprising emptiness as I entered the apartment. It was the same sense of coldness and strangeness that you feel when you return after a long time away: you recognize the space and the objects that you have chosen and placed yourself—everything remains the same. But at the same time you are aware that familiarity will only return with the routine to which you have yet to become accustomed to. I knew that although I was grateful that I’d been able to heal this wound my father had alluded to, I’d still miss Oliver hopelessly, even if the reasons were different now.

I went out onto the fire escape to get some air. The traffic noise was already rushed even at that hour. Oliver would by now be on his way to the airport. I looked at the sky, the city lights making the stars invisible to my eyes. Then I heard a choked cough above my head, but I couldn't see anything from down here. I climbed the stairs slowly and found Fabi sitting on one of the steps, smoking a joint, wrapped in a flowery blanket.

Seeing him had never felt so comforting.

"Why aren't you in bed?" I asked.

"I couldn't sleep."

There was something in his voice, a melancholy—an anxiety, which made me worry immediately.

"Are you all right?"

Fabi took a few nervous drags from the joint.

"Mr. Freeman is dead."

I could’ve been prepared for many things at this point. Perhaps for some reproach for having returned at such an untimely hour, even though Fabi was not that kind of possessive friend. Maybe some joke here and there? I could imagine that, for sure, as he tried to coax me to tell him what had kept me so busy all day and all night. Then I would’ve asked him what he had done—knowing him, he’d probably say that he’d spent most of the morning procrastinating, and that in the evening he’d gone to some clubs, but that he’d returned alone because he was fed up with men who only approached him with the expectation of hearing him speak filthy words in French while they fucked. But I definitely hadn't expected news like this.

"What happened?" I asked, alarmed.

"Apparently he hadn't been at work for at least a week. I went out to buy some things, and when I got back I ran into the police. A heart attack, it seems. He was found sitting on his couch, television on, broom in hand…" Fabi laughed stupidly before breaking into tears. "The other day we were joking about the smell coming from his landing, El, and— _fuck_ , I don't even know why I'm crying; that man hated us."

I quickly sat down next to him.

"He didn't hate us, he was just a very lonely man," I said, in an attempt to console him.

"I spent all day trying to locate someone from his family, but I didn't find anyone."

"Don’t worry, I’m sure someone will take care of that. When’s the funeral?"

"I don’t know yet but whenever it is I intend to go, even if I'm the only idiot standing there."

"I'll go with you."

Fabi put the blanket over my shoulders as well, and I snuggled up to him. We spent a few minutes just sitting and listening to the constant sound of the always-busy streets of New York.

"I don't want to end up like this, Elio," he said after a while: "an unsociable, grumpy old man who will only be missed by the company he works for because his absence is making them lose money. And I'm self-employed, for fuck's sake!"

"Don't say that." I hugged him. "Your students adore you."

He made a strange sound in his throat, as though he’d wanted to laugh but the hiccups caused by the crying had hampered the intention.

"It's true." I continued. "And you know my parents love you like a son… and you have me; I'm here, with you."

Fabi tried to smile, wiping away his tears.

" _Merde_ —let's talk about something else, okay?" he said, looking at his watch and raising his eyebrows, as though he hadn't noticed what time it was until then. "Wow, I see your reunion with Mr. America has gone well."

"Yeah… it wasn't bad. But not as you're probably thinking."

" _Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?_ Are you going to tell me that you didn't go to the park to feed the ducks?" He clicked his tongue, pretending to be offended.

"I don't know what to say, honestly. It was liberating, I guess," I clarified. "Now I see things in a completely different way."

"Is that a good thing?"

"I think it is."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not right now. I need some time to process it all."

A quiet peace of understanding fell between us. There was no rush, no pressure; we simply delighted in each other's company while sharing the joint.

"Fabi… I don't want to play the concert."

There was a loaded pause. Fabi sucked on the spliff and slowly released a stream of smoke before he said, "Okay."

I pulled away from him just enough to be able to look at his face.

"Okay?"

"Do you think I'm blind, El? These last few weeks you've been acting like you've been forced to marry the heiress of a bankrupt empire."

"But you never said anything."

"It was a personal decision."

Well, it had been easy after all.

"Aren't you even a little mad?"

Fabi laughed. "Do you want me to be?"

"No, of course not."

"That doesn't mean I firmly believe that you shouldn't deprive people of your talent. In fact, I've been thinking that it would be great if you added arrangements to _Perfect for Tears_ and the other songs you've been working on. They are so great, Elio—drums, guitar, bass." Fabi lifted a finger before I even could mock his comment. "I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"You should also write lyrics. You've shown me the poems you have in your notebook, and I think you’d be good."

"And who would sing?"

"You, of course."

"Me? I'm not a singer."

"You have a beautiful voice, you don't need the highest of falsettos to convey emotions, _mon beau_. You also have the looks—that always helps. I can already see you decorating the walls of girls and boys all over the world."

I laughed. "You're completely crazy."

"It's been a horrible day, let me fantasize a little, will you?" There was a smile in his voice, but he sounded tired.

"Do you want to go inside?"

"No, let’s just… let’s stay here for a moment, okay?"

I nodded and rested my head on his shoulder.

"I don't want to sound too melodramatic, but I've realized that I'm a happier person when I'm with you, Fabi," I said softly. "And I don't think I'd be able to do anything of what you’re saying if you're not by my side."

This was the closest thing to a confession I was prepared for—I felt that I owed it to him, and although I was a bit afraid, at the same time it was very exciting to look at the future without the safety net with which I’d been holding myself back until this moment.

Fabi pressed me against him and kissed my hair—no speeches, no more cheesy talk. And I preferred it this way. Let things flow naturally between us as they’d done so far.

So we stayed there until the sky began to turn purple, with small clouds that resembled soft motes of pink cotton. Two days ago, I had been in my apartment watching an image very similar to this one when the phone's high-pitched trill surprised me—alone, with so many things in my head that there seemed to be no room for common sense. And it's not that I had managed to recover some common sense in the past few hours, but at least I had been able to impose a minimum of sanity on myself, and breathe again after spending some careless time under muddy water. I knew that, despite the illusory effect of everything that had happened, much more powerful than the alcohol consumed, not only would I be unable to forget this day, but I’d also learned that I could be loved for who I am and had the opportunity to be a better friend, a better partner and a better man.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're already here; I'm kinda sad… but I should also say that rather than the end of the journey, this is actually the beginning of a new chapter in Elio's life. So, I _reeeally_ hope you like it and enjoy it for what it is.
> 
> Thanks so much to you all for reading and commenting. I didn't expect such lovely response and reactions for this story, seriously.
> 
> And special thanks to [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder), I couldn’t have done this without your help and understanding. It’s been fun to share this with you ♥

We’d been in B. only for two days and the drowsiness was already settling slowly in my muscles in the same way that the tide claims the sand. It was a pleasant and longed-for sensation after months in which stress, nerves and nonstop travelling had prevailed. Time was flying by—it seemed like only yesterday that we had welcomed 1996 and now it was already March, with the fruit trees in bloom and spring in the air.

We had landed early on Monday morning. Five guests that arrived to disturb the tranquility of a villa that still had four months left to become the epicenter of summer activities. Mafalda, whose shocking white hair attested to the passing of time that I seemed to have completely missed, had waited for us at the door with impatient enthusiasm. In fact, the first thing she had done was scolding me for taking so long to come back. It had been more than five years since the last time I had set foot on the gravel path leading up to the entrance, and whose crunch I had memorized as a line of poetry.

It was hard to determine exactly when it all had started. I could think of plenty of important turning points here and there, but the predominant feeling was one of stunned bewilderment, as though all of it had happened to someone else. Yet, when I really had to stop to internally sort my thoughts, I used the reunion with Oliver as the beginning of everything.

Oliver had kept his promise and called at least once every two weeks. He told me about his life and I told him about mine. In general, it was easy to talk to him, as though it had always been that way.

Mr. Freeman was buried a couple of weeks after being found. No family members could be located, so the Department of Social Services took care of the funeral. Fabi and I were the only attendees. It was a pretty sad affair.

As for my parents, they accepted my decision not to play the concert with their characteristic stoicism, so I stopped the rehearsals and focused again on my own music. I put a lot of work into it, and weeks went by before I sat down with Fabi to let him listen. Following his advice, I had recorded some basic demos, and explained to him what I intended to do and the arrangements I had in my head. Fabi was always keen about my compositions, but sometimes I couldn't help wondering if it was genuine admiration or if he was just being a good friend. But then he introduced me to Victoria, a former student of his with whom he was still in touch—an exceptional bass player and the _hippiest_ of hippies I had ever met. She was also beautiful and charming, and listened thoughtfully to the recordings.

"It's good, isn't it?" Fabi asked her.

"Good? Good is just a fucking euphemism, man."

We talked for hours that night, and after a few glasses of wine (and maybe too much weed) the three of us ended up naked and sweaty in Fabi's bed. The next day, when Victoria was gone, Fabi admitted that, although it had been an interesting experience, he had no intention of touching a vagina ever again.

This didn’t obstruct Victoria's presence from becoming a regular occurrence, and the transition from the nice acquaintance who visited us from time to time to close friend was gradual but fast.

The three of us spent a lot of time together, sharing our love for cinema, literature and music. Then there were the moments in which Fabi attended to his duties and Victoria and I worked on the songs. I played some on the piano; others on the guitar, while on bass Victoria added new layers to every note.

It was electrifying.

And when Victoria had gone and Fabi came back, we would cook, drink wine and catch up, and then make love until sleep overwhelmed us both.

Everything flowed naturally, and in a matter of weeks I had about sixteen songs ready. Including _Perfect for Tears,_ now called _Early September_ —an almost eight minutes long piece, divided into two acts in which the piano nostalgically recalled a bygone era.

Victoria and me were joined by Carson some time later—an old friend and also a musician, who had for years played drums in a band that had broken up recently. He’d been the one who, half jokingly, had asked us if we were looking for a drummer. After weeks of long rehearsal sessions, we were prepared to perform live.

Our first gig took place (as couldn’t be otherwise) at Marie's Crisis Café. I was very nervous that night despite the fact that all around us were familiar faces. Jamie, the bartender, had spread the word and the place was packed, but when time came to introduce us, Jamie turned to look at me and, with an arched eyebrow, asked: "How the hell is your band called, Vivaldi?"

That's when Miss Indigo was born.

This became one of the press' favorite questions: Why Miss Indigo? The answer varied, depending on the day, on who asked it, the tone in which it was asked, but especially on whether I was in the mood to be pretentious or imaginative. The simple truth was that Miss Indigo was the nickname of the deep blue guitar that had accompanied me since I was a teenager, and with which I still go on stage today. But I kept that to myself.

So, with a name and a repertoire, we became a regular feature every Wednesday at Marie's. The songs proved to be solid and after a few performances people were already chanting some of them. The buzz brought many new faces until the day came when Marie's became too small for us.

Oliver called one October day to tell me about the birth of his baby girl.

"Yes, I know what you're thinking," he said.

I just laughed.

He also told me that he was toying with some ideas for a new book, although he didn't want to reveal more. I filled him in on Miss Indigo—he made fun of the name, but tried to convince me to send him some demos, anyway. I categorically refused: if he wanted to listen to the songs, he’d have to come and see us play.

Soon we played in clubs all over Manhattan and Brooklyn. We were gaining confidence and the songs sounded better with each show. In my free time I kept writing while Fabi did his best to take care of his classes and book us into some local festivals.

Marzia married on a sunny day in July in an incredibly emotional ceremony. Fabi came with me. The moment our relationship had crossed the threshold of what was strictly considered just friends (or friends with benefits) was diffuse—it’d simply happened. And no one asked or commented, _"Oh, are you two together?"_ Those who knew us had accepted it in the same way we had. I never confirmed it to Oliver, however. Although, from our conversations, I imagined he took it for granted.

It reassured me to have Fabi there; his presence was like a balm that soothed my agitated and impulsive nature, even if he only sat in his corner to read a book, silently, while I played melodies until my fingers hurt. When I asked him, _"What do you think?"_ he always answered with his usual revealing sincerity.

Fabi was one of my biggest supporters during this challenging process, especially after we risked recording a precarious demo that the record companies, one after the other, rejected without the slightest consideration. Fabi didn't let discouragement subjugate me and encouraged me to keep going while he took care of all the logistics that went into planning each concert.

One day, after one of our shows, Fabi came running up to us with that kind of expression that suggested that something important was about to happen—a man called Joe Davies was in the audience eager to talk to us.

It turned out that Davies was a British producer who was in New York supervising the recording of New Order's latest work that would be released on the label he had recently founded. He had been impressed by what he’d heard, and he was willing to let us use the studio in the free hours to record a proper demo. There wasn't much to negotiate, and what followed were five intense but productive sleepless nights.

Davies loved the material and immediately offered himself as an intermediary. The record companies, however, were still reluctant. Too experimental, too risky, and why did a band whose only songwriter and leader was a man called themselves Miss _Whatever_? They decided we were not marketable.

I remember talking to Oliver after this, manifesting a frustration that used to be tinged with impotence. I liked to play live; I liked the connection with the audience and the songs worked well. What else did they want? Give it time; everything comes to those who wait, he said.

Just a few days before Davies returned to the UK, he told us that he had managed to convince some executives to watch us play. According to him, the demos were fine but our live performances were our best asset. I was tired and unwilling to face another negative response, but Fabi suggested appearing at the meeting with all the musicians we could muster. If they were going to slam the door in our faces again, at least, we’d leave making as much noise as possible.

So we arrived with a group of his students who had agreed to participate without any reservation, and set up all the equipment in the hotel hall (thanks to Fabi's unquestionable glib tongue) because there wasn't room enough for everyone in the small place they had assigned. Trumpets, timpani, violins… we started playing _It's 'Cause Of You,_ a song with an exuberant and fast rhythm; fun and fresh, and that I had written during a drunken night, playing at the piano with Fabi—in it, I confessed how madly in love I was with him.

It became a wild spectacle of performers and loud music. Guests came out of their rooms to see what all the fuss was about, but it was difficult to know if the show was having the desired effect—people seemed to love it but the executives kept looking at us as if we were pulling their leg.

We miraculously reached the third song, but when I started playing _Early September's_ first chords, Davies stood up, exclaiming that he didn't need to hear anything else.

"If the American squared market doesn't want you, you're welcome in Europe," he said. "If you're ready to catch a plane in three days, I'll help you produce the record."

His words were too unexpected to digest so suddenly. But Davies was so firm that, in view of his convincing determination, one of Maverick Records directors—Ryan Wagner—approached us to reassure that it wasn't the songs: they were good and we were good musicians, but audiences were looking for simple melodies to memorize and the radios would refuse to play us. Still, he said, he relied on Davies’ good work with whom he’d keep in touch to see how things evolved.

February 13, 1994 was one of the strangest days of my life. For the first time I picked up the phone and dialed Oliver’s number, praying quietly that his wife wouldn’t answer the call. It was an irrational panic, but I sighed with relief when I heard his deep voice.

"I'm going to England," I said directly.

I told him everything that had happened, and he genuinely seemed awestruck. He wished me luck and that was it. A few hours later I was saying goodbye to my parents and Fabi—the worst part of it all. I didn't want to depart without him, especially hours before Valentine’s Day, but Fabi couldn't just leave his school. I hugged him like a koala clings to the trunk of a tree. He found my desperate refusal to leave him quite funny, but he was struggling with the same tears that I hadn’t bothered to restrain.

"I'll find a solution, El, don't worry. _Je te verrai bientôt_."

" _Je t'aime,_ " I told him, and Fabi replied with the most American-sounding _I love you_.

In the following weeks we barely left the studio. We recorded eighteen songs, even if only twelve were going to be included on the album. Davies gave us the freedom to experiment and try new things. It was a laborious but inspiring process, and the relationship with Victoria and Carson became almost fraternal. I liked working with them as they didn't object to any of my extravagant suggestions. That was Davies job, who only intervened when he considered that— _perhaps_ —I should tame my ambitions.

But it wasn't all work; London's nightlife was absorbing. From bars and clubs in Camden or Brixton to comedy and theatre in the West End. It was impossible not to be seduced by all that multicultural life. I met a lot of interesting people and received tempting offers frequently, but I always went back to the house we had rented alone, cuddled up in bed and called Fabi. I also talked a lot with my parents, but I didn't hear from Oliver for a long time.

In May everything was ready for the release of our record in July. Davies had advised us to hire a manager; he suggested someone but had left it in our hands in the end. I talked to Fabi about that on numerous occasions.

"Be honest, you only want me there to have sex at your disposal twenty-four hours a day," he always joked.

"I can have sex whenever I want, with or without you."

From then on, the conversation used to end either with my hand on my cock, or with me crying into the pillow how much I missed him.

Despite having finished at the studio, though, the pace of work didn’t slow down. We rehearsed every day to prepare for the first festivals that Davies had managed to book, as well as the concerts in which we’d be opening for Elastic—a band that I had never heard of, but that apparently was very well known.

"Believe me, they attract a lot of people but, and I hope this stays between us, they aren’t very good musicians," Davies had said with complacent malice.

We played eight concerts with them, but the next day the newspapers only wrote about the band that had managed to overshadow the omnipresent Elastic. When one of the publications didn't even bother to include a photo of the supposed headliner of the night, their manager told us—with great kindness—that we should rescind the contract. Davies feigned dismay, but his plan had worked, and the specialized press already knew about Miss Indigo just in time for the limited release of the album.

With the arrival of the holidays, Fabi landed a few days before the summer tour started. I was so excited to see him that I would have jumped into his arms if it had been remotely possible. At home, we weren't even able to get to the bedroom; we fucked on the couch as though it was the last day of our existence. Then we repeated it in the shower and finally in bed until we'd worn off all accumulated libido—at least, for a few hours.

Then came the long-awaited tour—months in which we traveled the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Spain… For the short trips we rented two small vans and managed to gather a crew of people who helped us transport and set up all the equipment. It was a whole new experience, not only performing in front of such large crowds but the freedom that the road offered us; being in a different country every time the sun came up, and rub shoulders with artists whom we had admired all our lives and that lived music with the same passion as we did.

Davies faxed us all the published reviews, both about the album and the performances. They spoke of boldness and charisma, about powerful and bombastic songs, and about an admirable absence of modesty when it came to mixing classical influences with much more modern sounds. They also talked about the frontman, Elio Perlman, who showed his virtuosity without restraints and was a magnetic presence on stage. Fabi loved to read those quotes aloud.

Interest grew at a dizzying rate. The photographers wanted snapshots. The magazines wanted interviews— _NME_ , _Kerrang!—_ Miss Indigo topped every list of bands you mustn’t miss that summer. The album sales also increased, and Fabi suggested to Davies that it was time to release a single. We chose _Sleeping in the Dark,_ which was described as an anthem for the lonely.

We played around thirty festivals: Glastonbury, Reading, Rock am Ring, Roskilde, Pinkpop—and the album, _About Ghosts And Other Creatures_ , climbed the European top forty, while _Sleeping in the Dark_ rose to number three in the British charts. But it was in France and Italy where we were getting the most recognition—there was a special connection with that audience and at the end of the summer, _Sleeping in the Dark_ ranked number one in those two countries.

We appeared on TV shows and radio programs, and during the shooting of the video clip for _Sleeping in the Dark,_ a journalist from _Rolling Stone_ sat down with me to have a conversation that became a four-page profile. Everyone wanted to know more about that androgynous, slouchy boy (that was the exact description used) behind Miss Indigo’s inspiring sound.

It was completely insane.

There came a period when it was hard for me to discern what day it was or what city we were in. I didn't even remember the last time I had spoken to my parents. It was Fabi who was in charge of being in contact with everyone—with Davies, too, and Davies was in contact with Wagner who, all of a sudden, seemed very interested in hearing about our progress.

Finally, we reached an agreement with Maverick Records to launch and promote the album in the United States together with Davies' company. Fabi, whom I had appointed as my legal representative, flew over a few days later to sign the contracts and find a solution for his school. He insisted that everything would be fine, but I couldn't help but feel that I was dragging him hopelessly into all the madness we were immersed in.

After the festivals, we settled in Paris and while in the United States they tested the radios with _Sleeping in the Dark_ ; over here, we tried our luck with _Forever Isn't For Everyone_ and planned a tour for the next year.

My head couldn't keep up with any more dates and figures, and the only way I had to relax was writing more music. Sometimes I visited Marzia, who’d become the proud mama of a baby boy recently. Other times, I just sat by the window and listened to the girl who stood with her keyboard next to the Metro entrance every day. She was good and so attractive—with her afro hair and dark skin. I approached her one afternoon when she was picking up her things and told her how much I admired her talent. She thanked me without even looking up, but pointed to the tin box in case I wanted to contribute. I told her that maybe I could offer her something better.

" _Je ne baise pas pour de l'argent._ I don't fuck for money."

Her brazenness astonished me. I liked her. I asked her to come and see us play at a small club nearby. Two days later she was in the audience. Jameela.

Offstage, she told me (with fairly acceptable English) she'd had the feeling she'd seen my face somewhere, but couldn't put her finger on it. Now that she knew she was impressed. I invited her to some drinks. She told me that music was her passion, but that she played on the streets mainly because she needed the money. I explained to her that we could use an extra keyboard player for the live shows—we drank and talked for a long time. Then I accompanied her to her apartment and there, in the darkness of the hallway, we kissed.

I could barely sleep that night.

The next day, the phone startled me as I struggled between shame and deception.

"How are you, Rock Star?"

It was Oliver.

I felt that my head was about to implode with all the emotions that, like sand in an hourglass, were desperately looking for a way out. I asked him how he got the number and he told me that my parents had put him in contact with Fabi and Fabi had given it to him.

"Fabi?"

"Did you have any idea that he calls me Mr. America?"

I snorted because I didn't doubt Fabi's fearlessness to say something like that to his face. Then I burst into tears. I didn't deserve someone like him. Oliver tried to reassure me but we had to end the conversation too soon.

 _Sleeping in the Dark_ was doing surprisingly well in the US charts, whereas here, _Forever Isn't For Everyone_ had slipped into the top ten in just one week. All the news were great and yet, nothing made me feel good.

Victoria and Carson noticed something wasn't right. I told them about Jameela (not about the kiss) and they agreed to meet her and watch her play. They loved her.

We rehearsed together for a few weeks; the harmony was absolute and the songs sounded better than ever. Meanwhile, Fabi finally seemed to have found someone to replace him at the school, and he was likely to fly to Paris before Christmas. I told him about Jameela (not about the kiss)—he couldn't wait to meet her.

I didn't want to panic; I wanted nothing more than to have Fabi back here with me. I sat down with Jameela one cold morning and explained how I felt. She downplayed it: we had been drunk and it had just been a kiss. She loved playing with us and she needed the money; she had no intention of interfering in anyone's relationship. It was the most mature way to deal with it, but I still felt like the worst kind of traitor, breathing that air filled with the smell of coffee and croissants.

I threw up breakfast the day Fabi was returning, and when he walked into the apartment, obviously tired but with that smile that reached all the way to his eyes, I couldn't contain myself and spat it out: _I have to tell you something_. There, just like a bullet. Fabi hadn't even had time to put his luggage down, but his expression changed immediately.

"Do you have something to tell me that can’t wait for a welcome kiss?"

"Yes. No."

He set the suitcases on the floor with extreme care.

"Do I need to sit down?" He asked.

"Please."

And I told him everything. I lost count of the times I repeated: _I felt nothing. It won't happen again. Please, please don't hate me_. Fabi listened attentively and with a fortitude that made me even more anxious than I already was.

"I've been away for four months," he said at some point. "I've been moving from office to office, answering calls from everybody and their mothers. Reading and studying contracts; consulting with lawyers, as well as taking care of my school while looking for the right person to delegate a project in which I invested a lot of time and money. I have left _everything_ I had worked so hard for to come here because I know you need me and because I love you— _putain_ , Elio! Every time we're apart is torture for me. And this is the first thing you tell me, that you've kissed some random girl?"

"She's not just a random girl, she's gonna be our keyboard player."

Sometimes I could be a real idiot.

Fabi sighed like he expelled a demon from his body.

"Look… it’s been a long flight and I'm really tired. We'll talk about this tomorrow, okay?"

The next day I sat next to Victoria (it was almost impossible to know where Carson spent the nights) while she chewed her cereals noisily, and questioned me about what had happened _because_ she considered that it was not normal that Fabi had returned and that I had slept on the couch—how perceptive of her. I responded that it was nothing important but she, as expected, didn't believe me.

When Fabi appeared in the kitchen, greeting Victoria affectionately with a kiss on the cheek, but passing me by without the slightest little glance to open the fridge, Victoria grabbed her bowl and headed to her room.

I told Fabi I made him some toasts just the way he liked it. He thanked me. I asked him if he wanted me to make him some coffee. Don't worry; I'll do it myself. I was sitting on a stool, watching him move around the narrow kitchen—sometimes he would ask me where this or that was, but there was no more conversation than an exchange of curt words. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I begged him to insult me if that was what he wished, but that his indifference was killing me.

" _Mon Dieu_ , Elio, I’m not going to insult you."

"Tell me what you want me to do, then."

"All right, just listen to me. I appreciate your sincerity, okay? But let's get things straight: there won't be a second time. If it happens again, it's over. Relationships sometimes get a little parched, I know, and I'm aware that we've spent a lot of time apart, and things have been very overwhelming for you these last few months. But if you feel there's no passion between us anymore, I want you to tell me—I can live with that, but not with you cheating on me behind my back."

"As if that was possible."

Fabi chuckled. "It's true, no wonder you're so bad at poker—you can't lie for shit."

I took that as a positive response, but didn’t move just in case.

"Come here, _eespèce d'idiot_ ," he said affectionately, after having tortured me enough, and we merged into a hug that made me feel more human than I had felt in months.

The New Year came as fast as everything else, and with it the tour that took us all over Europe. We were effortlessly filling venues with more than two thousand people. Fans were waiting for us before and after the concerts. Even Fabi, who had become almost another member of the band, had his own audience. I remember one time, in Berlin, outside the hotel we were staying at, a girl lifted her t-shirt and, showing her bare breasts, shouted, "Try to manage this, Fabi!" To which he replied, "I'm gay, darling!"

Despite our itinerant life, I didn’t stop writing music—I had enough songs to complete a second album and with each concert, Miss Indigo's fame grew more and more, including in the United States. Davies and Wagner worked hard, generating a lot of expectation so we could present ourselves in front of as many people as possible when the time came to set foot on American soil. They didn’t stop name-dropping: Street Scene.

But for the time being, France was still the country with the most fans. I had even written a song that I sang partly in French—they went completely wild every time we played it. So, at the end of the tour, we returned to Paris and, encouraged by the success, we decided to close on a large scale at the famous Le Zénith. The demand was such that we had to add a new date.

Those concerts marked the beginning of a new stage for Miss Indigo, but the good news didn’t stop there. When we got off the stage the second night, Fabi and Davies were waiting for us—their faces reflecting the same satisfaction of a fisherman after finding the right bait. It was confirmed: we were going to headline the second day at Street Scene Music Festival in San Diego.

This had happened just over two months ago. Now, we were in B. where the most disturbing noise was the bells of the nearest church. These last two years had been exhilarating, but I missed this. I needed to be able to take a deep breath, close my eyes and listen only to the incessant murmur of the bees looking for their way through the grown grass.

"If all the people that chant your name saw you right now."

I turned to find Fabi at the threshold of the kitchen door, looking at the colorful apron that I wore around my neck and waist.

"What do you think they would say?" I asked.

"I'm sure they'd fall in love with you even more."

"And what about you?"

Fabi approached, leaving today’s mail on the island.

"If I fell more in love with you, my brain would melt," he said, bending slightly to give me a quick peck on the lips.

The concerts, the feeling of control I experienced over the stage and the warmth of the audience, vibrating with the music that I had created, was hard to explain—but this? This was simple and uncomplicated. Nobody judged if my voice sounded more hoarse than usual, if there were any sound complications or if the setlist lacked surprises. Here, I could dress in an old faded t-shirt and no one would look twice at me. Here, I could be just Elio.

"Try this," I said, offering him some of the pasta I'd been cooking. "Mafalda has been showing me how to make _casonsei alla bergamasca_ , but she won't let me be in the kitchen if I'm not dressed accordingly."

"And now she's gone and left you alone? That's an act of faith."

"She’s gone out to shop some groceries with Manfredi—shut up and eat."

"Mmm…"

"What?"

"Well, I guess it's not bad… it leaves a nice aftertaste but, if I may say so, it lacks some—"

I nudged him, cursing in Italian, something that always amused him.

"How was the visit to town?" I asked.

"Honestly, I would’ve preferred not to go, people are still a bit _agité_ , you know? But I had to make a call."

"A call you couldn't make from here?" I inquired with lighthearted cynicism as I began to pick up the culinary battlefield before Mafalda returned.

"I don't want to abuse your parents' trust, and it was an important call… and there are a lot of people in the house."

I looked at him carefully; Fabi sounded restless and worried. He left some dishes in the huge ceramic sink, leaned against it and folded his arms. That was never a good sign.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Wagner wanted to talk to me."

"About what?" I asked, harsher than usual, but I couldn't avoid the unpleasant twinge upon hearing his name.

"He's been trying to convince me to step aside for several weeks now. Since you're finally going to cross the pond, he thinks it would be better to have a professional and more experienced manager working for you. He even found a replacement, the paperwork is all set and ready to sign; he just needs me to resign…"

"You're kidding, right? His job is to sell and distribute; he has no say in this. Besides, why doesn't he tell me?"

"Obviously, because he's not going to ask you to fire me. He thinks, even if he doesn't say so explicitly, that I have too much influence over you."

I had to laugh about that.

"Influence… a perfect metaphor for the repulse he feels just thinking that you sleep with me every night."

"El—"

"What was it he told Davies once? Oh, yeah, _He looks too effeminate, he should tone it down; that's not going to work here_."

"Elio—"

"He never believed in us. Why do we have to listen to him now?"

"Because Maverick is investing a lot of money. And one thing is certain: the American market is complicated, and they are putting a lot of effort into this promotional campaign to convince everyone that the band to see at Street Scene is neither Pearl Jam nor The Cure; it's going to be Miss Indigo. That's exactly why they don't stop questioning everything I do or suggest—I'm a nobody in this business. And don't have the slightest doubt that I'll be the one to blame if your performance isn't the best of the whole fucking festival."

"There's nothing to worry about; Miss Indigo will give the best fucking performance of the whole fucking festival. And if things don't end up working out there, we come back. They love us here. We can buy an apartment in Paris, or retire to the mountains—I don't care. But I won't let anyone tell me who I should surround myself with. So the next time you talk to Wagner, you can tell him to go fuck himself."

For a moment nothing but the ticking of the hallway clock and the animated voices coming from the garden were heard. I was sick of this, of there always being a third party with something to say, point out or object to.

"Do you have any idea how much you turn me on when you're angry? When you're angry with someone other than me, I mean," Fabi said, regaining some of his good humor. "And especially looking so adorable with all that flour on your face."

"I hate you."

I tried to get away from him but Fabi caught me before I could escape around the island. His effusive kisses and hugs managed to appease the tedium that was becoming chronic as everything about Miss Indigo turned out to be bigger, more complex, and susceptible to the scrutiny and dissimilar opinions of people whose only concern was money.

"Control yourself, will you?" I said with a laugh. "Mafalda told me she's not going to touch our sheets again until we leave."

"I imagine her every morning, dressed in her yellow rubber gloves, looking for incriminating evidence like a detective."

"I don't even think she needs that—she has a sixth sense. I know. Just like my mum."

Fabi sat on the counter while I glanced at the correspondence he had brought: invoices, invoices, receipts, advertising, more invoices. But among all the letters was a package addressed to me with an American postage stamp. I didn't even check if there was a sender; I opened it immediately. I hadn't given myself a second to build some anticipation, but I certainly hadn't expected to find a children's book.

" _The Bird That Could Fly Very Fast_ by O. J. Coleman," Fabi read aloud. "Wait, isn’t that Mr. America?"

It was.

"Are you ever going to stop calling him that?" I asked, looking at the beautiful drawing of a woodpecker on the cover.

"When he grows hair out of his ears, I guess."

"You know that acting all jealous doesn’t suit you, right? I sing songs about you every night."

"Both of us know that's not entirely true, and the best song on the album is about him."

"It's not about him, it's about the nostalgia of that summer doomed to oblivion and—"

" _Ouais_ , _ouais_ , _ouais_ , tell that to _Billboard_ , I'm sure they'll love the story." He jumped off the island and kissed me before heading for the door. "By the way, they'll call next week to set up the interview."

"See? You're doing an amazing job!"

At night, after one of those tremendous and copious dinners (the _casonsei alla bergamasca_ were delicious), and with the stupor caused by the wine settled in our bodies, I sat down next to a window with Oliver's book in my lap. Carson had gone out, as usual, and Victoria and Jameela (taking advantage of the fact that Mafalda was already in bed) sat in front of the TV with some weed. Fabi had been studying, for countless times, all those legal documents of which I preferred not to know much, and now he slept on one of the couches.

 _The Bird That Could Fly Very Fast_ was a quick, easy read, and each page was presented with a lovely illustration. The story was about a woodpecker that had been born with a crooked beak. This provoked the rejection of the other carpenters that considered him inferior compared to the rest of his brothers. However, the little bird had a special ability: he could fly in a spectacular way like no other. The moral of the story was that the best relationship was not the one that unites perfect people, but the one in which each individual admires the qualities of others as they learn to live with their own virtues and flaws.

I smiled wide, remembering one of our last conversations. I checked my watch: it was six in the afternoon in New England. I went out into the hallway and picked up the phone. I waited for three or four rings, so distracted by the urgency that it took me a few uncomfortable seconds to react when a woman's soft voice answered.

"Oliver Coleman, please?"

"Sure, who's calling?"

She seemed friendly.

Why wouldn't she seem friendly?

I tried to put together this voice and the face in that photograph that I’d seen four years ago, and that I still had imprinted in my memory with the same precision with which a fossil is stamped into a stone. Would she know anything about what had happened that weekend? No, of course not.

"Elio… Elio Perlman."

What followed was a moment of heavy silence.

"One second…"

Why was my heart beating so fast? It didn’t make sense, but I couldn't even relax when Oliver grabbed the receiver and greeted me effusively. I waited a moment, until I was sure I didn't hear that metallic echo that indicated that someone else was listening on another line.

"Hey," I said, letting it fall as though it had come loose from a sigh.

"Hey! It's been a long time! How are you, Rock Star?"

He sounded so cheerful.

"Oh, well, you know, orgies can be exhausting, so I'm here in B., giving myself a break, reading children's books."

"Did you get it? I didn't know if it'd get there on time. I wanted to send it to your apartment, but it's impossible to keep up with you anymore, and I don't even know if you're still living there. Then I thought I'd give it to your parents, but they told me you'd make a stop in B. so—what do you think?"

He spoke very quickly, as though he needed to get rid of all that information before anyone had the audacity to interrupt him.

"Well, It’s not bad," I said, pretending to sound bored.

Oliver laughed, taking my words exactly as I had intended them.

"Why a woodpecker, though?"

"I don't know, Sophie loves _Woody Woodpecker_ and I thought, why not?" He laughed again. "Can you believe it? I've gone from writing about pre-Socratic philosophers to writing fables for children."

"Children are demanding readers; I know I was. And I think it's a nice and interesting analogy that needs some degree of knowledge and skill to be written in such a beautiful, simple way. Seriously, Oliver, I loved it."

I asked him about the kids, then. Sophie was three years old already, and Sean, who still showed a special sensitivity towards his friends and classmates, was about to turn nine. Oliver had written the book with them in mind, but especially Sean. And even if the boy acted as if he was too old for that sort of thing, Oliver had caught him reading it privately more than once. He sounded emotional telling me this and immediately changed the subject. He asked about B. and how things were here. I told him that, even though the years were leaving their mark on her, I was convinced that Mafalda would survive us all. But Oliver would barely let me speak, he asked question after question, wishing everyone was doing well: Manfredi, Anchise. Fabi. Then he changed the subject again. I didn't take it personally—I didn't mention Charlotte that much either, except occasionally as courtesy ruled. There was no need to delve into matters that were more than evidently still bothering us. So we engaged in a conversation about mundane things: his classes, projects; the concerts.

"I heard the song," he said after a while, abruptly, as though he had decided it was the right moment to drop it.

"What song?" I asked alarmingly quick.

" _Sleeping in the Dark_ , is that its name? They play it on the radio all the time."

Of course, _Sleeping in the_ _Dark_. The album would come out in the United States a month before Street Scene, and the second single, _New York_ , would be released next week—it couldn't be any other.

"Really?" I replied, because sometimes my reasoning couldn't handle more than one emotion at the same time.

"Yes. And the other day I saw a girl in college with your face glued on her folder. Do you have any idea how fucking weird that is?"

There was a naughty hue to his words, but my hands were sweating.

Up to this moment I had presented my work in front of people who didn't know anything about me; I could be whoever I wanted, and play my music unashamed while I offered them the opportunity to sing about feelings they could easily identify with. But I wondered if I was prepared to open my heart to those who knew intimately who was really hiding behind the eyeliner and the glam clothes. Not even my parents had seen me live. Only Fabi was able to be my friend, my lover and my accomplice.

"I bought the magazine… _Rolling Stone_ ," he said, lowering his voice.

I didn't understand what he meant at first, but then I realized that he probably referred to the profile that had been published a year earlier here and that now had been reused for one of the issues of the US version. I tried to joke about it, but there was something unnerving about his tone.

"You look different."

I sat up firmly.

"Is that good or bad?"

He waited a moment before saying, "Just different."

I tried to rummage through his words, the way he had pronounced them and those half pauses. But he was Oliver again: opaque, impenetrable.

"Is it good or bad?" I insisted, hardening my tone to cover the concern I felt.

I heard him move; then a few gentle steps, as though he had gotten up from wherever he was sitting, and after that I thought I heard the sound of a door closing very carefully. I could almost imagine him in his office, searching some privacy, but trying not to make a spectacle out of it. Or maybe I was making it all up, as always.

"You look amazing…" he said softly, but before even giving me the chance of absorbing his confession, he added: "And the song is fucking great. You're so talented, Elio."

"Live it's even better," I said, as a way of neutralizing whatever was happening right now.

"I'm sure."

"Speaking of which, did you get the tickets?"

"Yes, I have them right here."

"It's just an invitation, okay? You don't have to come if you don’t feel like it. I know it's a long trip, and a festival is not the most comfortable place to—"

"Do you want me to come?" He interrupted.

"Of course."

"Then stop treating me like an old man. We'll be there."

I spoke to him in the singular; he spoke to me in the plural—which made sense because I had sent him two VIP passes. I guessed we were back at the point where things were supposed to be.

"All right. See you in June, then," I said.

"See you in June."

"Great. So… later?"

He chuckled, relaxed again. "Yeah, later…"

In the living room, Victoria and Jameela had disappeared, leaving Fabi alone; still asleep like a log, and in a position that I knew would take its toll in the morning. I knelt beside him—he looked so calm, with his precious curls rustling against the cushion. I woke him up gently; he deserved nothing else.

"I'm convinced you could sleep on a swing if you wanted to," I said.

His lips curled up in a smile capable of destroying all grief. I felt so lucky to have him—I thought of telling him, but I didn't want to get too sentimental and make him worry about those ghosts from the past that still haunted me from time to time. Instead, I took his hand, and squeezed it tightly, as though to say: come on, let's go upstairs and enjoy the time we have left because as soon as we get through that door, Mafalda will make sure not to leave a trace of our presence, as though, again, no one had ever been here. Hug me and touch me; let's make love until our bodies surrender, so we can forget for a moment that when we get on that plane we will be leaving the last vestige of normal life we have left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this late, but here's is [Miss Indigo's album cover](https://i.imgur.com/D7Ef1qW.jpg) ♥

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


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